Masks
by Mellaithwen
Summary: The Winchester masks fall away when one of their own is hurt...
1. Chapter 1

**Masks**

**By Mellaithwen**

**Rating: T**

****

**Genre: Angst/Drama**

****

**Disclaimer: I don't own them, and the challenge this is written for is from PL Wynter's forum :)**

****

**Summary: The Winchester masks fall away when one of their own is hurt...**

****

**Mask of Innocence**

Everyone is unique but at the same time, most people do in fact fit into some kind of stereotype or quota. One of which, is the little brother. Now, most little anything's, be it brothers, sisters, or gremlins (though more often that not they all seem to coincide) are annoying. Most siblings are annoying, and Dean was sure, that his brother would fit perfectly into that category.

The annoying younger brother. The kind who, though intelligent, does not yet quite grasp tact. Or the importance of things, and because of this, finds it far too easy to undermine the eldest every move.

Like last night for instance, Dean, living up to his own stereotypical role as the good-soldier-son, in their own completely un-stereotypical and original family, though, complete with their own issues, was sitting quietly cleaning his gun. His father's lectures echoing in his head of the importance of such a task. The importance of the weapon itself and how an improper clean could be the means to an end where your life was on the line, or worse, your brothers life was on the line.

Indeed, that was a lecture Dean would rather forget. The words were repeated again and again, how Sammy was his responsibility, how his every move could be the wrong footing that would lead to pain for them both at the hands of god-knows-what while their father was god-knows-where.

"I won't always be there to save the day, Dean." He had said, and Dean had stared at him for a moment, attempting to discern the words. He spoke as though he always did save the day, when more often than most it was Dean who did so. Ever since his tenth birthday, and he had truly, truly told himself, that he needed to get his act together, it had been him protecting Sammy whole-heartedly, with not a seconds thought to his own safety. Sammy was more important, Sammy was younger...

But still, as the words swirled around his head, bopping to the rhythm of his own hand running up and down the barrel, careful to ensure not a single speck of dust was visible, there was Sammy, absentminded-ly throwing a ball he had found against the wall, knowing full well how each bounce irritated his sixteen year old brother. Knowing with a great clarity of how annoying he was truly being.

_Thud_

The ball hit the wall, and bounced back into Sam's waiting hand. He had gotten good at catching, his reflexes improving, and if somehow their father stumbled in from either hunting, drinking, or both, then that would be his excuse. That he was improving his skills, even if it did piss off his brother.

_Thud._

He saw his brother flinch, and could imagine the contained fury in Dean's face. He couldn't see him, only the hunched shoulders as he worked on his gun, leant over the table while Sam lay on the sofa, leaving imprints in the wall each time he threw the ball.

_Thud._

Another jerk from his brother, and he supposed that the slight pause between his now umpteenth throw of the ball had led Dean to believe he had stopped. Lulling his brother into a false sense of security as he threw it once again.

_Thud._

"Sammy..." Dean began, his voice, clearly warning his younger brother that he would regret any other throw. But Sam was twelve, almost thirteen. He was more cunning having grown up with Dean showing him the ropes, and Sam had learnt how to assess a situation. For instance, his brother had opted for the warning first, which meant Sam had at least one more throw before screaming ensued

_Thud._

"Sammy!" The warning was louder, but a warning all the same, and that meant that Sam could continue on his kamikaze mission.

_Thud._

"Sam!" Much louder, much louder indeed, and the loss of his hated nickname had too disappeared, Sam threw it once more, but Dean simply leaned backwards, expertly flicking his wrist and reaching, grabbing the ball and tossing it beneath the stairs, with his little brother groaning.

"I told you to stop." Dean said simply, before going back to his work.

* * *

With age, comes maturity, but once you hit nineteen, and you've been at such a high level of maturity since you were four years old and your brother was placed in your care, and the first barking command of his father was called to him, there isn't much to learn as the years go by.

Dean sighed, something he did far too often when he thought about it. It filled the time when he had absolutely no way to vent his frustration other than clutching his stationary until his knuckles went white. He threw his things down, leaving his Maths for another day and turned back to the kitchen, looking at the piling dishes. Another sigh, and another more for comedic effect that anything else as he lugged himself over there and began his work.

"Come on, Dean, please!" Sam was pleading, this always amused him, but at the present time, as he continued with his chores, his brother having just dragged himself home, his feet heavy from the prospect of having to beg no doubt, it was beginning to get tedious.

"Dude, since when do you need my help when it comes to standing up to dad?"

"Since I need him to listen to me." God he could pull the guilt machine when he wanted to, but this was one trick the teenager had yet to master, and Dean could see right through it with great ease.

"You're needed on the hunt, Sammy!"

"Why? What can I possibly be doing that's so important."

"Watching my back, jerk."

Sam was quiet for a moment, as his brother continued with his routine of dipping the few plates and cutlery they owned into the sink, letting as much soapy water as possible run through them, before placing them on the mounting pile drying on the sideboard next to the sink.

"Dean, _please_."

"So keeping me alive isn't enough, Sammy?" An attempt to guilt his brother into the decency of feeling slight shame, and he does so, hanging his head for a moment, as Dean continues.

"Why does it matter so much? You've never given in work late before, so what if you ask for one more day."

"But it's not just one more day!"

"When did you get it?"

"Get what?"

"The essay question, when did you get it?"

"Today."

"And she wants it back by tomorrow, dude, that's unreasonable even by your standards."

Sam mumbled something, turning as he did so, and once again, Dean stopped in his work and turned to his brother. "What was that, Sammy?" He asked, irritated.

"I said," His brother huffed, "It's not in by tomorrow."

"So what's the big deal?" Dean cried incredulously and Sam groaned.

"It's a major essay Dean; I need to work on it for more than one night!"

Dean didn't answer; he merely continued to wash the dishes, letting his rough hands bask in the now lukewarm spuds.

"Dean, I'll pay you."

"With what? You already owe me five dollars, after you _had_ to have that _wonderful_ book, and I know dad hasn't given you extra, so how could you possibly have money?"

"I-." Sam faltered and Dean was officially interested.

"Sammy..." He said his tone akin to that of a warning, granted more timid than when Sam in his younger years had irritated his brother with the rhythmic bouncing of a ball.

"There's this old lady at the bottom of the street-."

"The cat lady?"

"Yes, Dean, the _cat lady_, the really nice kind _cat lady, who doesn't actually own any cats."_

"You took money from an old woman?" He asked amused, grinning still, "That's low, man." but Sam quickly shouted "No! She-she has these dogs-."

"Cat lady has dogs?"

"Yes Dean-."

"So she's _dog lady_."

"She pays me to walk her dogs, okay?" Sam said, having stared long enough at his brother's grin.

"What!"

"Dean, it's not big deal..."

"That's why you're home late everyday? You're walking dogs?"

"Look, it doesn't matter-."

"The hell it doesn't Sammy, you told us you were stuck in school finishing work!"

"And you never thought every night was a little suspicious?"

"We thought you were dedicated!"

"Sure you did."

"Sammy, don't turn this around on me! You've been lying and now you want my help!"

"Dean, this is like half of my grade, if I don't do this, it won't matter what I get in the exams-."

"We're not gonna be here, Sammy."

"What?"

"You know what, dad told us we weren't gonna be here as long as the last hunt, we can't afford to waste more time."

"How is getting an education wasting time?"

"Because it doesn't matter! How is being able to recite the periodic table gonna help you when there's a demon on your ass!"

"If it has a Chemical weakness, I could sure as hell find a way to kill it."

"And by the time you'd found the solution, and enjoyed your own little victory dance at remembering it oh-so-correctly, me and dad would be dead!"

The plate smashed back into the sink, Sam winced as it did so, and his brother stormed out of the kitchen, leaving a dripping trail of bubbles in his wake as his hand shook from anger.

The others faced was burned into the Winchester brother's mind. Sam, looking ashamed as usual, but also, seeming so defeated and deflated, as though he knew he had failed in his mission, and that Dean was no longer on his side. And Dean's face? Dean's face was set in stone as he walked away, leaving Sam to brood, as the cogs spun around in his own mind. He was stripping away the mask with every step he took, and he stopped suddenly. Taking a breath to calm himself down.

Sam caught up with him, and for a second both of them thought he would apologise, but he didn't, he didn't even look up. He stormed off himself, repeating his brother's skills at doing so, leaving Dean to ponder.

Maybe he should let Sam have this. Sam wanted to be normal far more than Dean did. To the eldest, it was fake, too fake, too perfect, and perfection was always ruined.

His own four years of perfection, though he scarcely remembered two, were horribly marred by the fire that had destroyed it all. Destroyed his own life and his father's having their mother, wife, torn from them without so much of a warning, and for Sam to be born into a life of hunting. It was Dean's way of having a soft spot, a chink in the armour, in the form of his geeky teenage brother.

So maybe it wasn't such a surprise that he allow Sam to keep the mask holding it all together, it wasn't a surprise when he fastened the clips on the white picket fence and the 2.4 children, the American Dream that was more flawed than any damn nightmare they would ever have.

"Hey dad, maybe, well-." The front room was stuffy, and Dean found it increasingly difficult to keep his cool, hating the prospect of lying to his father. Credit card companies, bar-men asking for ID, the odd call from confused neighbours he could handle. But John Winchester, ex marine, and pro hunter, was another matter altogether. He could banish spirits, keep a creature occupied by beating the crap out of it, or shovelling it full of round after round of rock salt and silver bullets but lying to his father, scared the crap out of him.

"Spit it out, Dean." The voice was bored, and clearly doing something else at the same time.

"Sammy doesn't need to go."

"What?" More of a perked up sound, and Sam could tell his father was finally giving a shit to what Dean had to say.

"I said, Sammy doesn't need to go."

"Dean, I know you feel it's safer for your brother to stay here-."

"It is!" Dean replied, taking a different tactic and relying on his more believable performance as the over-protective brother to get him through the bout of lies.

"And what about you?"

Sam frowned at the question and no doubt Dean had too by the lack of response. Their father sighed.

"You're watching my back Dean, but that puts you in just as much danger as me, you need someone to watch your back, even if it is from afar."

"Dad, I'm nineteen, I can look after myself-."

"Don't start that, Dean, I know you're capable, but it's risky."

"I know."

"And you're willing to take that risk, as well as the responsibilities?"

"Yes, sir."

"Fine, you can tell your brother the good news, god knows he's been trying to get out of it for long enough."

Sam heard the footsteps and launched himself up the three steps separating him from the landing, crouching and crawling back to his room, before his brother could see him.

More footsteps coming up the stairs now, but by the lighter imprints of sound, Sam knew it was Dean.

"This better be worth it, Sammy." Dean muttered, knowing full well his brother was closer than he should be. The door to their shared room closed tightly, but didn't slam. It never did when Dean was on the inside; Dean never acted out his anger like that when their father was home. Dean never really acted his anger out around anyone, but Sam knew full well that was exactly what his brother did while he sparred in the yard, or aimed kick after kick at his makeshift punch bag of pillows and crap bundled into a sleeping bag.

John saw it as his son practising, while Sam wondered almost selfishly if it were him his brother was aiming each attack at.

Once upon a time, Dean had done so, but after a few seconds he would change, and it would simply manifest into the evil that took his mother, a mixture of every demon, ghost, spirit and creature he had ever faced, leering over him, with eyes red, and fingers manipulating the flames surrounding him. His waking nightmare he could control with the blink of an eye. The waking nightmare that was his life. And he would walk out, mostly once his father called down that whatever take out had been ordered was going cold, he would take a deep breath, do the whiff-test on his armpits, and sigh sigh and sigh again, before putting his mask of indifference and boredom back in place over the anguish and hurt.

Sam's innocence defined him, it made him the little brother. The stereotypically ass of a little brother.

He's the same Sammy, always. Sammy fighting demons, Sammy asking for the last of his lucky charms, it doesn't matter; he's always Sammy the innocent, naïve, brat. Sammy the ungrateful shit, who never looks past what matters to him. Sammy, his brother, who he loves and hates, though the former tends to overtake the latter in most situations. Sammy the selfish, _lying_ bastard, then again, that could be blamed on Sam the now-grown-up.

Sammy, with the mask of innocence.

But now he wants me to be called Sam, to the point where he keeps reminding Dean time and time again. He wants him to destroy every memory and make them different. He wants him to separate his brother, and Sam the hunter, and he can't do it, because both of them, Sam and Sammy wear the mask of innocence like they own it, holding on as if its theirs and no one else's.

Sammy, wearing the mask of innocence, and Dean never even got the chance.

"Dean!" John calls, yelling from the bottom of the stairs, frustrated with his son's slow movements upstairs. "Come on, we got work to do!"

Dean opened the door, edging out clad with his jacket and jeans, and best trainers. His duffel bag over his shoulders with his newly cleaned and preened weapons. He caught Sam's eye as the younger brother came out of the bathroom.

"Shouldn't you be working on your paper?" Dean asked, almost bitterly, silently wondering if things would be all right with just him and his father before quelling the fears, and hiding his doubts.

Sam gulped at the look in his brother's eyes. "Be careful." He said quietly, leaving Dean to grin, smirking. "I always am, Sammy."

But even as his brother ran down the stairs, three at a time, and he heard the front door close, rattling, and the impala doors open with their own unique creaks, Sam felt the dread that maybe this time his fears weren't unfounded, his doubts weren't an overly paranoid intuition, and the maybe was becoming more definite, more secure in the thought that there was more than a distinct possibility that Dean wouldn't be careful, and things wouldn't be okay...

**Please Review. **

**More to come...**


	2. Chapter 2

**Okay, I worked out a few things, and this is going to be more than a three-shot. Sorry about that. Trust me :) we'll get to the angst soon enough…**

**Hidden Headaches**

When he was fifteen, Dean ran away. You couldn't even say that, he didn't even _run_, he simply slipped out of the motel room door into the storm, as his little brother, then eleven, screamed like a brat at his father, who at that moment, was being surprisingly unreasonable.

The fact that Dean would admit to having noticed this was quite something, especially with his track record of unfathomable loyalty toward his old man, even when in his darkest moments of fatherhood, the oldest brother of the Winchester's most recent generation could always see the good in John, always.

Or maybe, he just hoped it was still there. The man that had held him so tightly, who had cried out in support as he played T-Ball, his father. His real father, not hunter, not fighter, just _dad_.

Dad wouldn't be home tonight, that much Dean knew. Instead John Winchester, bitter to the end, would sit down, pissed as hell, mulling over his youngest son's harsh words, but this time he would sit, staring his oldest son down, waiting for the apology for running off like a little kid who didn't know better.

He had slipped off into the night, and he had been none the wiser, that's why he was so angry, not because he had disobeyed him to an extent by not mentioning his leave, though, Dean simply figured that seeing as he was in front of his father when he opened the door and stepped into the rain, that would be enough.

For one night, he wanted to let go, and then he'd go right back to being the perfect soldier he'd always be. But everyone's allowed a bad day. Even Dean Winchester.

He never took the back door. This particular motel was more like a run down set of apartments. They included a garage with some rooms, that John had rented, leaving him somewhere to park the car, and clean is weapons without the added risk of accidental discharge breaking what little items they owned.

Dean hated using the backdoor, because the back door, meant you had to go through the garage door, unless you were willing to jump over the hole leading to the sewers beneath, his father having complained as many times as possible, and given the same response time and time again, that they would look into it, so now he simply told the boys to be careful. To avoid the whole that was nearly impossible to simply jump over.

He hated using the backdoor, because it meant stepping into the dingy space where rain seemed attracted to, where cobwebs hung all around, and god-knows-what-indigenous-insects dropped down and landed on your shoulders, or arms, and bit down...

He hated having to go through the garage door, he hated the rusted lock, jammed, making him have to push down and turn the key simultaneously, and then kick it a good few times, before it would even begin to open, then he would have to pull and pull until it came free, and allowed him entry to the garage.

The freezing garage where his father's car was parked proudly, gleaming in the glare of the rather rubbish light bulb swinging precariously from where it hung. He hated the cold that was ever present in the night, and he hated the inky blackness that always came closer when he stepped outside. He hated it, he hated it all.

But he would never admit it, never say anything that would lead his father to believe such a thing. He wouldn't lie and profess a great love, he would simply act as though it didn't bother him, when he sometimes wondered if he hated it more than little Sammy who was getting taller by the day.

Dean never used the back door if he could help it, and right now, he hadn't needed too. His brother and father were at it once again, and Dean simply sat on his crappy little bed, with the itchy sheets, and strange smell that made him gag at night. He sat, his eyes forward, attempting to close his ears, if such a thing was possible, from the harsh words being spoken so loudly.

Though granted, if ever he looked back, he would see it as mere child's play in comparison to the college boy Sam would become in the near future.

He never liked tennis, and he certainly didn't like playing the net, looking back and forth between the players, Sam and John, Sammy and Dad. He didn't like being in the net, because he was in the middle, and he was permanently in the cross-fire, and more often than not, that damn bitch of a ball hit him smack bang in the head.

_Right, left, right, and Sammy's taking the serve, his right arm raised, the racket lifted high as the ball launches into the air..._

Dean looked at his brother for a moment. Almost sad, wishing he'd learn to compromise when he knew John never would. Parents didn't know how, so it was up to the children to agree, to secretly hate them, and berate them under their breath, but never to the parents face, never get caught doing it, never stop doing it, either.

He didn't even know what the fight was about, and he mused that it was most likely Sam's mood swings, and his father's short temper adding to the mix with a little _"I want to be normal,"_ and a pinch, or rather a whole-damn spoonful of _"This, this hunt, is more important, Sam,"_ tossed in that no amount of sugar could help the youngest Winchester swallow willingly.

And Dean had had enough of listening, or trying to listen. Had enough of his name being thrown around as if he wasn't even there. He'd had enough of being the stupid net, and enough of that bloody ball skimming the top of his head.

He got off of the bed, just as the argument got more heated; he grabbed his jacket from the chair near the door, and took off into the night, sighing all the while. Neither remaining Winchester noticed until John glanced down, running a hand through his hair in an exasperated fashion, and saw, to his surprise, that Dean was not looking up at him, pleading to stop the fight, instead, the bed was empty, and except for Sammy, so was the room.

"Dean?" John suddenly voiced out, finally aware of the lack of a buffer between he and Sam, and Sam returned by searching the room with his own cautious stare, checking the bathroom in vain to find it empty, devoid of life. And instead, both males looked toward the door, and knew that Dean had gone.

* * *

The two drops he allowed himself to shed, fell down his cheeks, and then refused to swipe away, letting the rain do that for him, seemed to lift the pain of his growing headache for a moment, before the harsh winds pulled him back, and the thumping of hammers against his temples began once more, rhythmically and cruelly.

He wasn't someone who cried often, in fact, he never did. His father hated tears, because every time Sammy would get upset, he would look over to Dean as though at a loss at how to comfort. So the gauntlet fell to Dean to pick up the shards of a life, broken at his feet. John cried, once a year. His crude attempt at hardening his heart only allowed him one night in November to grieve, and he spent the rest of the time brooding, meticulously researching, writing in his journal, and hunting the crap out of this weeks big-bad.

Oh, and being a father of course. Can't forget that now, can we?

_No, Dean, bitterness not helping the headache, dude_

He reminded himself, finally making an attempt to dry his face as the rain continued to drench his skin, leaving him frozen to the core.

He had once wondered if he should voice out his concerns over the constant drumming, turning him insane as he gritted his teeth at the pain and nausea, but he knew now why it was. He didn't sleep, not properly. Maybe in Winchester standards he did, but when compared to say, every other kid his age, no, he barely got any sleep. He didn't drink anything through the day, simply because he never felt the need, and ignored the warnings of his father about luminescent yellow pee.

So what if he hadn't drunk enough water, it wouldn't kill him.

Yet.

And meals? Well, they could hardly be called that. Take out's, or the picks from the closest vending machines or 7/11, or if he was lucky, he'd find a stray Oreo inside of his bag, left forgotten, the last in its pack, begging to be eaten. Never meals. Never home-cooked, sometimes not cooked at all. He was beginning to think he preferred going hungry.

But then his stomach would grumble loudly and he'd quickly correct himself.

He was pushing himself, running on pure adrenaline. Walking, running, hunting on les than five hours of sleep, having drunk nothing, having eaten even less. Dehydrated, hungry and exhausted.

And royally pissed off with the constant bickering, no, constant fighting, between the two people he loved more than anything.

"Ugh." He growled under his breath, as once again his foot found itself landing in a puddle, drenching his trainer, sock, and ultimately his entire foot in frozen muddy water. He shook his foot slightly, but only serving to make his foot feel even colder as the wind still blew strongly around him. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, and pushed open the creaking red gate leading to the small park.

His feet shuffled against the bark lining the ground, a seemingly softer landing than tarmac or concrete, but still incredibly painful to fall on. Sammy had fell on those things once, not here, but somewhere else, further away, but with the same bark, the same gravel crap that Dean was kicking away with his feet. He ignored the wet puddle on the swing as he sat himself down on it. He was soaked to the skin as it was what did a little more matter?

At first he sat dejected, staring down at his jeans, pushing strands of hair away as it stuck down to his forehead with the rain every now and again, but soon, by the wind's bidding he began to swing backwards and forwards. His feet scraped against the whatever-the-hell-it-was things beneath his toes at first, before he relented and swung accordingly. _Feet in, feet out, feet in, feet out_, gliding forwards and backwards as he held on to the chains loosely, gaining height with each pendulum swing.

The difference in gravity was exhilarating, he felt free, cold, freezing, but free. His pounding headache and heavy heart forgotten as he relished the moments in which he surpassed the bars above him, and continued to go higher and higher, the chains jangling, and the swing creaking, and Dean grinning.

_Feet in, feet out, feet in, feet out, feet in, feet o-_

The swing came to a stop as the chains were grabbed, and Dean swung suddenly, the world lurching and the momentum carrying him into a quick spin that when ended, let him see the very angry man in front of him.

And just like that, the weight in his chest grew, and the headache returned full force along with a new batch of dizziness. _Damn swing_.

"What the hell are you doing?" John Winchester bellowed, infuriated by the worry he was not accustomed to when it came to his oldest son, and his now wet-dog-like appearance.

Dean didn't reply, biting back the retort in his head that simply said; _Swinging_.

His sarcasm had come over leaps and bounds recently, his quips coming in faster as his brain worked in over-drive, and humour as his best defence mechanism really making the effort, but he knew his father would never appreciate it, hell; Sam didn't, though Dean wasn't sure if that was simply due to his brother's lack of understanding, or maybe because he was always on the receiving end...?

His brother appreciated being listened too, and respected, and his father appreciated good skills in battle. Good fighting, good footwork, a well landed punch, or a quick and thought out lie when directed at those in want of their money. A teacher of his had once praised him for his work, surprising Mr Winchester who had grown accustomed to teacher's ranting over his son. But no, this one was different. She was young, and more willing to accept the sarcasm, and laugh at the jokes even if they undermined her own teaching material. She had soon found that by letting Dean be, even just once, he then respected you in return enough to work hard. His marks had really improved that year, and it had been one of the few times he tried to get his homework done in time.

He had been sad to leave, and truth be told, the teacher, with her brown bouncy curls framing her smiling face, had been sad too when John had taken his son's away, the hunt over, and the rest of the trimester unimportant on his to-do list. Especially when demon-hunting still came top.

The father had given notice, some two or three days, allowing suspicion to mill down and the like, and in that time, he had received a final report, listing Dean's skills, and final achievements, and his over-all grades for the year. It had been the only time where Dean had received A's because of hard-work, rather than being absent.

The glare brought him back to the present, and he wondered if he should dare glare in return, but no, that wouldn't do. So instead he picked himself up from the swing, and walked back toward the motel, his movements, his body language giving his father the distinct impression that Dean understood what he had done wrong, and was in no rebellious mood like his kid brother.

He made the slow trek back to the motel, his father hot on his heels, not chasing, simply following, attempting to calm the boiling fury to a low simmer of an over-protective man knowing full well what could grab his children if he turned his back on the shadows around them all.

The fight, the game, was over, and it had been for almost an hour, the time that Dean spent swinging, and Sam simply sat dejected on his bed, slowly falling asleep. The score didn't matter, not really, though he knew someone had scored a zero.

_Love - 13_

Ironic, and he wasn't thinking of the unlucky thirteen either. You score a zero and it's called love. Fighting has no winner, so you both score zero, so does that mean, in the great world of metaphors, that Sam and John loved each other more than they could even begin to convey?

Stupid game, with a stupid ball, and stupid players and stupid rackets that hit the ball too frickin' hard at the god damn net. He hated getting hit in the head by the bitch of a ball, and it was one thing when it was an accident, but he hated getting chased with the ball, getting it thrown purposely to teach him a lesson. Vigilance or some other twisted importance. He didn't care, but his father wasn't to know that, and nor was Sam.

Next time, he'd slip away again, yes, but he'd grab a few Ibuprofen too and he'd make sure he was back to the see the final hit, the ending, just so he knew what he was dealing with when he fell back into place between the two of them, his brother and father, and prepared for the worst.

_Game, set and match_.

**Please Review.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Ah sorry this took a while, but I had the beginning of the chapter, and the ending and it took a while to get the middle done, but here it is, and its long, so please review it, please! **

**Warning for the chapter too, language and general...gore I guess,but let me know if I should up the rating.**

**Mask of a Hunter  
**

The night-time drive was far from peaceful. The apprehension of the hunt, often mistaken for tension, hung in the air as John drove with speed toward their destination. As they drove by the various scenery, unheeded by either, the radio hummed at whatever station it was stuck on, a random rock tune filtering through, but the unknown song was simply background noise compared to the thoughts racing around Dean's head.

He wasn't sure what to think. It had been quite a few years since just the two of them had hunted, and thinking back to his younger years, he doubted they had ever faced the biggest-baddies out there, though, John might have alone, he wasn't careless enough to put his son in that much danger before he was seven years old, despite Dean's whining that he was far too old to be left behind. And every time he began to whine, John would sternly tell him that he had to stay behind to look after little-

Dean's thoughts were pulled back to his brother as he stared out of the window into the dark night that flashed by in a meshed image of a blur. John was clever; he knew full well that no matter how old Dean was, or ever would be, he would always have Sam as his Achilles heel. It didn't matter what mask Dean adorned, there was always an over-protective brother underneath, that was one of the things that would never change.

"_No, Dean; stay here, and look after your brother."_

And he did. He had done so, ever since he was four, and even before then he remembered vague reports to his mother of how he would be the _bestest big brother ever._

Those were the memories where she smiled, and kissed him, and told him what a good brother he would be, and how she knew he would protect little Sammy, who was tiny even then. When he was ten, he had managed to convince his father to let him tag along for a routine haunting, as routine as a haunting could be, that was. He had proven himself then, and ever since he'd been allowed on hunts, while Sam either stayed over a new friend's house, or as the years went by, John left him there alone.

He and his father had never truly been a team. Rather, John had been the hunter, and Dean was a stray cat who wouldn't leave him alone, but who John protected with the ferocity of a father of a cautious dad.

_Who was leading his child into the unknown...?_

John looked over at Dean. It was no secret that there was something wrong, but, be it stubborn pride, or his acceptance of tough-love, John wouldn't ask what it was. He knew it had something to do with the youngest Winchester, but boys will be boys, and they fought every now and again, it wasn't rare, nor common, it just sometimes was and sometimes wasn't. Granted, it had happened a lot more often recently, ever since Sam had refused to get off his high pedestal of no-hunting. A part of him, buried deep, wondered if it was for the best. If Sam hated the hunt, he wouldn't be at his best, and he could endanger them all. But Dean had become reliant on his little brother's back-up, whether he needed it or not.

He hoped his son had the sense to be a hell of a lot more careful without Sam to yell for danger. It seemed they were more as one, than two, to him. He had always assumed that siblings always meant rivalry, but beneath whatever fights the boys had, they were still close, they were still brothers. Sam looked up to Dean, more than the older brother would ever know, and Dean protected Sam so much that John often wondered if there was anything Dean didn't try and shield his kid brother from. To Dean, the world was too dark for an innocent kid like Sammy, and he'd be damned if he let Sam run loose in it without him.

"The man I spoke to earlier," John began, breaking the silence of the car, "Joseph, said it was buried near an old birch tree."

"You think that increased its power?" Dean asked, a thought crossing his mind, reminding him of something he had read earlier while searching through some of the books his father had yet to read on the supernatural.

"What?"

Dean swivelled to face his father, glad for once to have the upper hand.

"Well there's loads of different lore about trees, birch trees especially, you know, the white hand and all."

John merely stared, clearly wanting Dean to continue. "Well if it touches your head, you go insane, and if it touches your heart you die."

"A killer tree?"

"You're being sceptical?"

"It's a tree, Dean." He said with clarity, having fought everything but trees so far, finding it hard to care about them now when a mauling creature awaited their arrival.

"That is most likely incredibly old, incredibly evil, and its evil probably seemed into the dog's grave!"

"The dog was pretty evil as it was, Dean."

"You said it had only bitten like three people."

"Yes, and now it's attacking in death."

"You said the dog only went for people's legs, which means it was probably trying to defend more than attack, and this spirit? It's not attacking, it's mauling, if it was just the spirit of the dog, then he probably wouldn't be so vicious…"

"Without the help of a certain tree, you mean?"

"Yes."

"Fine, then we'll burn the tree as well

Dean sat, content, and continued to stare out of the window until they reached their destination. The woods stretched for miles, but for the most part there was an old dirt road that would allow them to park closer and out of site from the town. Wouldn't want to go blowing their cover now, would they?

Not to mention how pissed off Sam would be, not only having to explain why his family were out in the woods with his mediocre lying skills, but also having to leave so soon, maybe without saying goodbye to anyone.

And who were they to deprive Sam of the normalcy he craved? Oh that's right, his _family_. Why did everything always have to come back to Sam? Be it mild hatred, annoyance, frustration, love, protection, it didn't matter, his thoughts always went to his brother, even now, when he should be shitting himself over the prospect of meeting his maker, instead he was thinking about his geek brother as he worked on his History essay.

The car came to a halt, and Dean was glad for the seatbelt preventing him from vaulting forward even more and possibly through the windscreen. He was a far better driver than his father, he respected the car a lot more, maybe too much. But his father had gotten into the car behind the wheel and there was no point in arguing.

They exited in speed, quickly entering the darkness of the woods.

The ground beneath their feet was wet, covered in mud and moss where the sunlight never reached trough the tall trees that surrounded them. Their toes curled over rocks and small stones as they stopped themselves from tripping. The soft footfalls, sure and steady of two hunters in search of their kill.

Their hands clutching flashlight and guns, and a bag on the burlier one's shoulder filled with emergency matches, a lighter, gasoline, and plenty of salt. His boots crunched the leaves only once, and he cursed himself for letting them do so. Silence was the key, always. Darkness was against them and without sunlight on their side; they had to be more careful. Their lives depended on it. The younger one walked with just as much confidence, the air of a fighter surrounding him as he too held onto his flashlight and sawed-off-shotgun, though he carried no bag, he wore a black jacket, warm enough, and had his own lighter in his jean pocket, while a few sachets of salt from the local grease-ball restaurant were in the other.

He hoped he wouldn't need them. Sachets were a bitch to open without being attacked, but they fit in his pocket, and he needed both of his hands...his father would no likely berate him on his stupidity later on, but right now, they had a dead-dog to kill. Or re-kill, or end back to hell, or maybe even heaven. Who knows?

"You find the grave; I'll go looking for our ghost." Dean said to his father, forgetting his pointless thoughts on salt, as he looked around the woods.

"Dean..."

"I can run faster than you, Dad, and you know it." He said grinning at his father, who scowled and turned away. "Oh, and dad?"

"What, Dean?"

"The tree, avoid the branches, 'kay? Just don't touch them."

John growled, as if he needed to be told how to look after himself by his son. Dean nodded, pleased that his bit of information was vital enough, and turned around, shotgun held tightly in one hand, flashlight in the other.

"Here, doggy, doggy, here boy."

He cooed and whistled, in a mock call, fairly sure it wouldn't be enough to distract the creature assuming he would have to do much more, which only served to surprise him when out of nowhere a low growl was let out from behind him. He turned around just as the creature began to advance.

Maybe he shouldn't have made fun of the dead-dog-with-fangs so readily.

* * *

John let the flashlight glide over yet another tree, and realised he wasn't entirely sure what a birch tree looked like, though, he was sure it was fairly thin tree, but the darkness all around them was not helping.

Then he saw it, long, tall, and just as he'd thought, thin. He stared up to the sky, and saw the gnarly branches moving ever so slightly in the breeze, its dark branches silhouetted against the sky with the moonlight cascading over it. A full moon. He hoped that wasn't another aspect that might strengthen the spirit. Maybe they should have waited until the next night.

But by then, more people could be dead. Most idiots still ventured through, thinking themselves strong enough to face whatever it was attacking. A coyote maybe? Surely not a bear. No one paid attention to the ravings of Old Joseph. Grieving they said, grieving over his dog. Going crazy.

If only people realised that the "crazy" people of the world, were probably more intone with the world around them than any sane cynic, and maybe then, people would have the sense to avoid creatures of the night...

* * *

_Oh holy hell_

Dean backed away as the dog continued to growl, and snarl. Thick drool dripped from his teeth, but as Dean continued to stare, knowing better than to shine the flashlight directly at the creature, he saw the drool was too thick, too red.

_Nice. Real nice._

He grimaced.

He wouldn't call the thing horrifying, but it was no wonder it had scared the crap out of it's owner, who it refused to attack, only pounce on every now and again.

It's skin was sagging so much that much of it had already fallen off, revealing it's skeletal face beneath. His however were far more than intact; they seemed sharpened and preened for the kill. The eyes glinted and its movements were eerily precise for one rotting corpse of a creature. The stench was putrid, common amongst the dead, mixed in with another smell, fresh blood, so strong that Dean could taste the metallic coppery liquid as though he had been forced to drink it himself.

Had this been how so many had met their maker recently? The missing had varied, some old hunters in search of deer, passing through walkers, or occasionally a foreign hiker. One thing they had in common? They were probably dead, mauled, by Cujo over here.

His father had been told about it over a beer one night in some dreary bar, and thankfully, the man being as intoxicated as he was, didn't seem too bothered by the strange question John asked. _"How long ago did the dog die?" "Was it an attack dog?" "Was it killed, or put down?"_

And as John was about to leave, the nosey, but well intentioned bartender had clued him in on the deaths. Two confirmed, and that was only because their bodies had been found by passers by. There was plenty of unidentified blood spatter, and more than a few missing persons in the area of late. John had winced accordingly as though he were far from used to this kind of information, and the bartender had looked over at Joseph sadly. _"He thinks it's his dog," _He said, _"Back for revenge or somethin', he was a nasty little begger, always biting..."_

"_Revenge?"_ John had asked. _"What for?"_ Joseph had said he himself had shot the dog, point blank in the head, and if it had yet to attack it's owner...

"_How the 'ell should I know? It's a bleedin' dog."_

Oh, so he was that kind of bartender, flinging around accusations and useless information. Typical. Just typical.

It was their third hunt in that same place. The only reason they had been living here so long was because of the coincidental goings on. First it had been a poltergeist, vicious, but clever, having made a home for itself in a cynical household that wanted nothing more than to keep up appearances. John had to love himself in, and make himself a family friend before he was told anything, but Dean had played his part, flirting much of the info from the oldest daughter, while Sam got vague parts from the young son.

The poltergeist dealt with, the family thought it best to move, the sudden silence as they were unaware of the house's cleansing scared them more than the scratching, flickering and general terrorizing they had suffered with for over a month. John would have left soon after had he found another job, but then two months had passed and Sam was getting closer to people in school, and being far more manipulative than usual.

Another spirit, non-aggressive, serving only to scream occasionally, was then burned, and another few months passed by, with John having found a seemingly steady, though part time, job with the local mechanic helping out whenever he could, and getting paid.

It was always good to give the credit card scams a few months rest in case they got caught.

Then there had been the howling. They had all heard it first hand, and rushed to the door in hopes of seeing it, but it was too far away, from the direction of the woods. _"I'm gonna go see what's going on." _John had announced.

"_Woods are that way, dad."_ Dean had said, bored, when his father began walking in the direction of the town close by, and the bars that lay there, already steering Sam back inside. John ignored his son, but Dean hadn't the chance to sigh at the alcohol tainted breath when his father returned before John had clued him in about their most recent hunt. The dead dog.

Now they had the whereabouts of its grave, and they would salt it and burn it. Normally, only warrant for one hunter. But from accounts of the local's, weeded out subtly as curious neighbours, the bodies had been a grizzly site, and John knew the dead-dog wouldn't be overly pleased to have someone throwing salt and gasoline all over it's remains...

So Dean would keep the thing distracted, while John burned the remains. Maybe they didn't need Sammy after all?

"Nice, Cujo." Dean said, stepping back ever so slightly, not wanting to waste his rounds of rock salt, and risk the dog retreating to its grave. But all of those thoughts fled the coop when the dog lunged at Dean's chest. Dean raised his arm and shot, and couldn't believe it when the salt passed through the bones seamlessly. The dog, unfazed, pushed onto Dean, who fell backwards from the weight.

"Cristo." He muttered, but the dog only growled, no flinch, it wasn't possessed that for sure.

Claws pressed down on his chest, pinning him, as the dog snarled, blood dripping from its mouth onto Dean's neck. He struggled, trying to get his legs up far enough to kick the shit out of the creepy creature, far scarier than any dog with rabies Stephen King could ever come up with.

His arms were pinned, one beneath his own body, another, wielding his shot gun, held by a back paw. The dog had more strength than the largest human, which worried Dean even more.

_Stupid fucking tree._

**

* * *

**

His footfalls were careful once more, he avoided the ground that seemed disturbed. The soil was moved, but in the way it crumbled to the sides, the way the hole edged upward, and not inward, made him curse under his breath.

This wasn't a spirit. It was the un-dead. The dead-dog was no ghost, burning the grave with nothing in it wouldn't be enough, and even if Dean was right, burning the tree wouldn't quite do it either. They'd have to send it to hell, and John couldn't do that with the distance. He'd have to be right next to the thing.

A howl went out through the night, and a loud smack could be heard. His ears searched for the direction while his hands grasped the giant salt container. He tossed a load inside of the grave and all around the outside, and continued the throw as much as he could on the tree, reaching just further than what he could reach with his hands alone.

He took hold of the gasoline and poured it as he heard another snarl, getting louder and louder. He sprayed half of the canister out onto the grave and tree, and set it alight, grabbing two matches and light them at the same time, tossing two in the grave and doing the same again with another three setting the birch tree alight.

He saw a branch, long, and white, aim for him but he stepped back and avoided it, seeing more of the branches flailing from where he stood. It would seem Dean was right...

A yell, a human, familiar, pain-filled yell, let out in the night, and John broke off into a run, the salt and gas now back in the bag, and his mind already searching for a banishment right.

* * *

The fangs dug deep and he let out a scream. His flesh was torn, and he bled freely, pinned and unable to fight the thing off. He continued to try and kick out but it only made his back hurt more when the dog pinned him down with even more strength. The claws digging in, making him bleed even more. The dog looked pensive for a second, staring at Dean who was gritting his teeth, holding back the cough begging to be released.

A crackling could be heard in the distance, a light in the corner of his eye lifting to the sky, and the dog's hold loosened considerably, oxygen had no barrier and flew through his throat, surprising him and bringing on wave after wave of an increasing agony.

The creature then backed away for a moment, as though confused and thinking his latest victim was the cause of his weakness. His ears then pricked up and he instantly ran off into the trees, aware of another presence and intending to keep it at bay so he could finish his meal later on.

Leaving Dean to lie bleeding on the ground, finally letting out the cough that brought blood to his lips.

He had to calm down, the more panicked he became the more he hurt and bled. He had to calm down, distract himself. But thoughts and memories would only pull him into a depression no doubt with his recent track record of morbidity and lack of a perfect happy lifestyle. No he had to think of something simple, something he could remember and continue with for some time.

He began listing every tape he owned in his mind, between gasps of agony and the occasional moan as he tried to shift his weight to lessen the hurt, but soon found that over as quickly as the counting sheep had been. He wasn't a fan of the woolly buggers, and in his mind, the smaller the flock the better.

He then began an attempt to remember track names but only served to frustrate himself when he ended up repeating many of the same songs twice. He growled mentally, and simply began to hum, that too interrupted only by his own muffled cries. At first it had just been a noise, nothing more, nothing truly intelligible, not that humming in itself was considered an intellectual art, but still.

To begin with, he had only hummed but then found, humming wasn't enough, he needed a tune, and found the last song he had listened to filter in, and the barely audible rhythm of Metallica left his cracked lips. The steady rhythm of _No Remorse_'s heavy guitar intro came to mind. This would keep him distracted surely; the thing was over six minutes long. Soon, he found it difficult to keep up the attempt to calm himself down, the fast-paced song taking up the last of his energy, and as the humming died down he willed himself to focus on lyrics, waiting until he could see them as though someone was holding up a piece of paper in his mind.

He read it thoroughly, his eyes closed in concentration, but his ears remained alert, his hearing stretching out around him for any anomalies in the usual nightlife of the woodland grounds. Crickets, slight rustling—but knowing what was usual with the breeze picking up its pace, or an attacker waiting or its opportune moment. For now, however, thankfully enough, it was the former.

The words spoke to Dean, and as he read in between the imaginary lines, he could see their lives. No remorse for the creature, no matter how seemingly helpless it was on the surface. Strength meant survival, and he, a hunter, had to kill.

"_Like a loaded gun right at your face_." He gritted out, feeling his grasp on his conscious mind loosen slightly, "_War without end_."

Their own War was endless, he knew, it was bleak, one-sided, and dangerous, like any other War. Like any other fight, or conflict. Like life itself, and all of the meandering Neanderthals bumbling around in their every day life, while children are being whisked away in the night by things unknown.

_Damn it_. Dean thought to himself. Not even Metallica had been able to steer him clear of the thoughts he was left with.

While the young and old are killed by the Supernatural. Every day lives filled with normalcy, until a Werewolf stumbles in and crashes the party, or a woman hides her ulterior motives as she stands on the side of the road, hitchhiking, and leading the drivers to death. What good was normalcy, when the un-dead turned up on your doorstep?

What good was a fucking History essay, when your goal in life, is for vengeance. When all you know is how to protect the naïve, and the seemingly innocent. What good is a history essay, when your brother was lying alone, taking shaky breaths to forget the agony filtering through him? Dying...

What good was a whole load of bullshit on a general of the past, when the most important War of all, Good versus Evil was going on right now and you were too busy writing to care? Too busy to keep your family safe. Too busy to turn up, to simply cry _"Watch out," or help him get the attacking creature off of him long enough to get a decent shot._ So that you're brother, who gave everything simply to let you grow up better than he, would have a fighting chance to turn around in time, before the claw was dug deep into his chest, before the fangs took their fill, and retracted so quickly, winding him so badly, that as he crumpled to the floor even more, seemingly finished, he only cried out once, only truly screamed once.

Dean didn't dare cry out for his father, who was hopefully cornering the thing right now. He couldn't risk his attacker coming back to ensure his silence, he couldn't risk being found by anyone other than John Winchester, so he lay as still as possible, one arm feebly attempting to staunch the bleeding while the other grasped at the blades of grass, no longer beneath him, holding the muddy and wet greenery, between his fingertips, needing to hold _something_ but only succeeding in tearing the green from its bed of earth, and letting it fall limp in his palm. He felt light-headed, which he blamed whole-heartedly on the amount of blood loss he had suffered, and was still suffering from and he cringed at the thought of being found like this.

Then again, if his father didn't arrive soon, it wouldn't matter what Dean looked like, he'd still be dead, and with death lingering so close, he let out another cough, stronger than the last, the blood still trickling, and making the tears that had so far lain still, fall down his cheeks. With darkness encroaching upon him, a single thought became crystal among the worries and doubts, mixed in with fear.

_God, I need a drink._

**Please Review! **

**Next chapter up soon :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**I'm sorry it's not up to par, I just had some problems with writing it—sorry again!**

**Demon In The Drink**

The first time he had drunk, anything more than caffeine-coated drinks or water, he had been thirteen, and had quickly cringed as the alcohol trailed down his throat, the strange taste lingering for a moment, and quickly turning his breath to the stench he despised on his father. He had looked up at the man, who was giving him a strange stare, as though apprehensive, and Dean, thinking it was what his father wanted to see, smiled, and commented on the great-taste. When really, it had been nothing worth savouring.

At sixteen, he had been tempted back to the drink, though in a much different fashion. He was no longer a curious teen wondering why his father relied on the substance so much on the occasional quiet night, no, he was almost a man, or at least, he would say so—and his father would disagree with a hefty snort.

He had been with friends, or more, acquaintances, who had no idea of the faux-pas lives they were leading. The smiles hiding hatred, and glares hiding desire. God high school was confusing, but Dean seemed to enjoy it. Granted the work was a pile of crap on a stick, served with extra helpings of who-gives-a-rat's-ass, but the ladies...well, they were everywhere, and his boyish hormones raged, just as the females did in return to the handsome young man, with his trimmed locks, and habit of cuffing his collars upward, retaining his bad-boy appearance down to the T.

He had drank, yes, but nowhere near as much as the rest of them, and had pick-pocketed their keys when they dismissed his warnings of driving. He had left early, excusing himself with enough time to banish the bad breath that was no doubt lingering in his gums. He had left with them none the wiser, forcing them to walk home hours later, leaving their cars until the morning when they had gone round to the Winchester's, grabbing their keys and huffing in annoyance though some had the decency to smile in thanks, aware that driving would not have been a good idea. Even with their learners permits only allowing them within a certain confines of driving.

He had grown older and found a fond friend in beer, mainly when his father would hand him one after the most recent blow out. And they would sit on the couch, or one of the beds, or sometimes the floor and stair at the wall. Taking a swing in unison before letting their arms fall to their sides, resting on their knees in their crouched position, leaning against something or other, be it a table leg, or the end of the bed, or wall. Looking like father and son in a twisted sort of way.

Maybe there was no such thing as a routine hunt, or, ghost-hunt rather, but to the Winchester's this was one of them. A house, abandoned, because of its little tenant, and then the ghost-busters swooped in, glad to have found somewhere to squat until another hotel opened up, while hunting this particular spirit.

The research, went slower, Dean and John having to be careful not to arouse suspicion, but they had eventually worked out, that the spirit himself, was a father lost in grief. His entire family had died in a house fire, and he had then killed himself upon returning to the empty household that held so many painful memories.

Even when the charred walls were gone, he could still smell the flames, hear the screams...

Maybe it was because he and John had so much in common, families tied in by fire, guilt-ridden and filled with grief, but Dean would always like to think that his father was never suicidal.

Maybe it was truly his father's anger that beckoned the spirit forth, or maybe the coincidence that on All Saint's Day, their mother's death-day, that this particular spirit, would come out to play.

His violent death at the hands of a noose, had only fuelled his anger at the world, and in spirit form, he could take it out on the ungrateful, only able to see black and white. To the spirit, Jed Matthews, John was a struggling father, who he sympathised with.

And Dean was a whiny child, no, a man, who should know better than to cross his father on this particular day.

Maybe Dean should have known better, or maybe he shouldn't have had so much Faith. Maybe it was just a coincidence, and that John had been most emotionally vulnerable at the time...

Either way, he had discarded the day, knowing of its importance, but no longer wishing to mark it, not wanting to recall the cruel memories that haunted him, not wanting to pay any heed to the anniversary, wanting instead, to feed his little brother. He had only asked for money, a few dollars for him to run down the road to the small convenience store, grab some cheap munchies that would keep the stomach-growler at bay until sleep claimed him.

He hadn't expected his father practically throwing a bottle of beer in his direction, as an offer to join him in drowning their sorrows. He hadn't expected the glare either when he refused the invitation.

He had taken the verbal beating, the degradation, the insults, all in his stride, and when John was done, he simply set his jaw, and asked as calm as could be. "Can I have some money?" but in John, Jed, or any other being crouching in his father's mind, it had been a direct attempt at being rude, choosing not to listen and only to repeat what was wanted.

"Dad, what's wrong?" Dean asked, calmly, and John scoffed.

"Everyone I love is dead!" He screamed, and Dean stepped back. What the hell was that supposed to mean? His confusion only grew when his father began mumbling and muttering beneath his breath about the endless flames, and crackling fire...surely John couldn't be talking about himself, he had his son's!

"Dad, I don't know what's going on, but-."

"Just, pass me the pack on your way out." John said angrily, cutting off his son's speech before he had the chance, and Dean dared clear his throat to make his voice deeper, more intimidating helping him feign confidence.

"I think you've had enough, Dad." And Dean knew he had rehearsed the words too many times in the past, but with only his own practically non-existent drinking habits, and his brother's complete-non-drinking attitudes to compare it to, he hadn't always been sure if John had a problem or not. Either way, the words had left his mouth before he had the chance to stop them.

"I'll decide when I've had enough, boy."

Dean span on his heel, grabbed the pack, and promptly left, running to the bathroom, he cracked open as many bottles as possible and quickly drained the liquid in the sink.

"What the hell do you think you're doing! Do you know how much money they cost? What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Keep it down!"

What was that old saying? The stroke that broke the camels back? John was no camel, but my god, that had been the final straw.

Dean hadn't a chance to react before his father had lunged forward, his forearm pressed against Dean's neck, shoving the younger male against the wall, the radiator jutting harshly into his back. "What did you say?"

"S-Sam'll h-hear." Dean croaked out, and John growled. "Let him hear." He said coldly, and Dean shuddered beneath his father's touch. Something was wrong and he knew it. The mutterings were back, of flames and fire lining the walls, but never a mention of a death on the ceiling, and to Dean, that was the give away.

Jed's family had died in an accident, one it had later been revealed was partly Jed's fault.

John's wife, Dean and Sam's mother had been murdered, and the flames had merely taken her away, burning the evidence...

So similar and yet so very different.

Dean grunted, trying to get from under his father's grip but finding it as motions in vain. The hold wasn't completely choking him, but he doubted he would last long should he provoke the man in any way.

"Dad, it's me, it's _Dean_." He said, cringing at how lame he found himself to sound. "Your son, oldest son, you told me to take Sammy back from the flames, you put him in my arms Dad."

Nothing but a cold glare.

"The fire, it wasn't an accident, it was murder, Dad, how can you get the demon if you can't even fight a worthless spirit!" He cried, and as he had suspected the hold increased, pushing against his windpipe, but he had seen recognition in his father's eyes and that was all he needed.

"Fight it, and you can get the demon, Dad, we all can."

More recognition, and slowly, as though only now he was learning how to function properly, the arms dropped to the side, letting Dean to fall down the wall, sliding, his back grating against the pointed edge of the radiator, but pleased to only be let go.

"Dean?"

No hatred now, only drunken confusion, and Dean felt his own anger flare up for a moment. He growled, and pushed past his father, hoping he would have enough measly gummi bears left over to tide Sam over until morning.

John looked around with glazed eyes, assessing whatever had just happened, letting jumbled memories of fires die away and grimacing at those of holding his son the way he had, against a wall like nothing more than a common enemy. He took a stumbled step forward, and collapsed into the chair, his head pounding, and the lingering effects of the drink and sudden lack of spiritual adrenaline, taking him to sleep. He vaguely told himself that the house would be exorcised in the morning before the boys woke up, as a peace offering of sorts, that he hoped would do.

Dean had stormed away, upstairs, and had walked in to see Sam's eyes closed, and breathing even, happy that the boy was asleep rathr than quizzing him on anything he might have heard, he too, crept into bed, but refused to sleep. Instead, he sat up, keeping watch over his brother, and ready for any bumps in the night that deserved his full attention.

* * *

Sam had tried the drink, of course he had, and he too had wondered what the fuss was about and never understood what the point was in drowning your sorrows if you would only wake with a hangover in the morning. Surely the grief was better than a killer headache and cruel nausea? Apparently not, he realised, as he watched his family drink away.

He'd never seen Dean drunk, and he doubted he ever would. It would be too much of a loss of control on his brother's part, and he hadn't seen his father truly drunk since he was very young, too young at the time to understand why Dean was tucking him into bed so early. Too young to hate his father, but old enough to know something was wrong, and old enough to listen to his brother, when he spoke over the noise in the living room as their father trumped around in his wallowing anger. He was old enough to hide his fear, just because Dean did.

Sammy had been twelve when he had first tasted the drink officially. He and his family had been sitting in silence for quite some time, and seeing his brother and father do it so many times, Sam had grabbed his brother's bottle and taken a very quick swig, hoping the alcohol would have whatever desired effect everyone thought it did. But it only left Sam with a strange tangy feeling at the back of his throat that he neither liked nor disliked.

Unofficially, Sam had been nine years old at his first taste. His father's carelessness at leaving his bottle unattended and a thirsty child mistaking it for something else. He had not drunk anywhere near enough to be caught at feeling drunk or queasy for that matter, but he hadn't liked it then, his young taste buds unable to handle the liquid and he had quickly opted for swilling his mouth out in the sink, his head ducked so that he was practically swallowing the tap.

Dean had walked in, and saw his brother practically drowning in an attempt to get rid of the taste. He had yanked Sam's very wet head backwards away from the sink, mindful of the tap itself and had quickly began towel-drying his younger brother's hair, well aware of how cold it was in the house they were currently squatting in, with no heat until their father set alight to the old fire in the living room when he returned.

By his brother's rough and jerky movements, Sammy had assumed it was out of anger his head was treated as such, and quickly tears had pooled in his eyes as he was pushed backwards and forwards until his hair became fuzzy from Dean's effort.

"'m sorry." The child had muttered, eyes down, hands wringing within themselves, and the towel came to a standstill, resting over Sam's face, until Dean pulled it away. "What?"

"'m sorry." Sam repeated a little louder and Dean dragged away the towel from the boys head, and frowned and the crestfallen look. "I didn't mean to, I didn't know, I-I thought it was my drink."

Dean paused, having been more worried about his brother catching pneumonia than actually asking why he had been shoving his head beneath the tap...

"Sammy, what do you mean?"

"Daddy's bottle looked like mine." He said quietly, so much that Dean barely even heard his little brother, barely. He quirked his eyebrow and fought the urge to laugh, keeping a serious look plastered on his face beneath the grin begging to be let out along with a long laugh.

"Look, it's okay Sammy, just, be more careful, 'kay?" He said, trying to calm his brother down.

"You're not mad at me?"

"Of course not, kiddo, why would I be?"

"'Cause Daddy shouted at you when you took his bottle before." Sam said simply, and Dean felt his face drain, and just like that, he was pulled into the memory of some weeks before, and felt the urge to laugh no longer. The memory of his father's anger being taken out on him, he had assumed Sam was asleep; he had hoped and prayed the words had gone unheard save only for him, but alas, he was not to be granted that small mercy.

"That was different Sammy, Dad wasn't himself, okay?"

"What do you mean?" Sam asked, before promptly yawning and Dean simply sighed. He grabbed his brother into his arms, sweeping the boy off of the ground where he stood, and scaling the stairs where their make shift beds were surrounded by a large circle of salt. "What did you mean, Dean?" Sam asked, echoing his question earlier, and Dean looked his brother up and down, noting he was barely keeping himself awake.

"Look, Sam, sometimes the things we hunt, the ghosts, well they can mess with people's heads, that's all." He had tried to say the words gently, but it hadn't stopped the young boy's hands flying to his forehead and holding his head, shaking it. Dean put his arms down quickly, "No, not everyone Sam, just-we're okay, see the salt? You know what that does, don't you?" Sam nodded. "Well that's one thing stopping the ghosts from getting to you."

"What's the other thing?" Sam asked curiously, crawling into his "bed" while doing so, and Dean smiled, tucking his brother in.

"Me."

**Please Review.**


	5. Chapter 5

**This time, it wasn't my fault; the document manager has been playing up and wouldn't let me upload any documents, so I'm very sorry for the wait. Thank you to everyone who's already reviewed, and please take the time to do so again. Thanks also to Silver Kitten, who let me know the document manager was working again :)**

****

**Mask of a Smile**

He hated clearings unless his prey was smack bang in the middle of one, in which case, it made it so much easier to end its existence and reign of evil. But in most cases, the creatures weren't stupid enough to stop in their hasty escape from John, and certainly not dumb enough to stand on the spot marked with a giant X and wait for the rock salt to knock them backwards until its vanquishing could be completed with the certainty of a hunter.

They were more dangerous, the woods circled the patch of blank grass where no trees stood, giving the enemy every opportunity to follow you while hidden in the undergrowth. It made you the target, and John Winchester would never be the target. He refused to let himself become a human dartboard, though he assumed, it was indeed inevitable within his line of work.

He wouldn't use his son's as shield's either, but he wondered if that as exactly what he was doing. Bringing the boys into this...maybe he should have left them there with Mike in Kansas, let them sleep and wake up without a father. Maybe that life would have suited them more.

A movement to the left made his entire stance change, no longer was he searching but now he was preparing, readying himself for the need for stealth. Steeling himself, and clenching his jaw, pulling his fingers in tighter until the knuckles on his hands were white and an imprint of the gun's every groove was left on his rough palms.

A movement to the right, and his eyes narrowed. He could play games too. He stepped backwards, his feet barely making a sound on the damp terrain.

He still looked around him carefully, both in search of his son and his prey. The dog had to be around here somewhere. He waited, his patience waning inside of him, and his worry escalating at the silence. A crack and he opened his eyes, the dog was in front of him, staring at its paw annoyed at the sound it had made, but John only smiled. It was weakening considerably, but it could still hurt him. He acted quickly, grabbing the salt and tossing it over the head. The dog shied away, wining as though hit and John took the opportunity to fire three rounds of rock salt into it, two of his shots making the target as he began chanting under his breath. The Latin curses rolling off of his tongue as the dog writhed and withered, its bones crumbing into specks of dust that mingled with the grass and seeped into the mud.

"Malefactor absum praetereo!" John muttered finally, "Evil be gone." As the dog let out a sharp wail, and there was nothing left of the monstrous creature. John let his body take in a deep breath as he contained himself, surprised at how things had turned out.

His assumptions that the dog was nothing more than an angry spirit was a dangerous one, and he had lead himself and Dean straight into the woods blindly.

Then it occurred to him, on almost every hunt he could recall, Dean had either been by his side while the hunt was completed or had quickly found his father, even when injured, there he was, masking his pain, and hiding any fear that had been present.

But now, John stood alone, and it reminded him no the hunts he had gone on before the boys had been old enough, before he had trusted his eldest to hold his own with a shot-gun out in the world. He had taught Dean much earlier, showed him how to shoot, explained it all to him, and the child, so eager to protect his little brother with a little more than tiny fists that would do no damage against whatever evil made it through the door and so eager to please his father by his quick learning at the task. He had been drilled on the importance of cleaning the gun, ensuring it wouldn't jam, embracing any recoil, instead of shunning away from it. Handling it as though it were an extended piece of his own limb...

But that was very different to actually letting Dean loose on a hunt. The boy's nerves would be all over the place, and harmless shadows (though they seldom were) would have been shot with countless rounds of whatever bullet-like-substance lined the barrel. He had to ease the boy into it, start shooting practice, resort to scaring the boy if only to rate his reactions, and though he had essentially made sure that Dean knew to shoot first and ask questions later, he was still pleased at how quickly Dean assessed danger. How easily Dean knew his father and brother's footsteps and discerned them from the creature they hunted, no matter how similar, Dean had never shot his father or brother by accident, never even come close. Sam however...

Sam had almost shot himself in the foot while cleaning his own gun, and had grazed his brother's shoulder in an attempt in the early years of his hunting experience, which indeed was only some two, three years prior. Maybe the guilt the younger son had felt was enough, but as the spirit was dealt with, and Dean's arm hung rather loosely, John hadn't been able to stop himself from the rebuke he dealt out to Sam. _"What were you thinking?"_

"_I didn't know my aim was off!"_

"_Maybe it wasn't."_ Dean had muttered darkly, obviously referring to the fight the two had had once again regarding the hunt, and, in Sam's opinion, the pointlessness of it all. He had heard Sam mention their mother, and it had taken a hellova lot of restraint to not go in there and give his own anger a good few rounds when Mary was brought into things, but he knew Dean himself had stood up for his beautiful wife as well as he could have expected.

"_Oh come on, Dean!" _The tone had held frustration for sure, but John knew the turmoil hidden within, and could practically hear the chiming of the guilt machine inside, telling himself that he could have killed his brother if he was only a few more inches to the right, but Dean had refused to relent on his bad mood, and both had stayed silent in the car ride home. Both angry as hell, and refusing to budge, each proving to John that they were indeed his son's, having inherited his stubborn streak.

He took a breath, focusing on the air around him, but he heard no confident cry, or curious caution, no, only the crickets of the night and the twittering of some bird that he had long since understood was never really an owl. If only the trees could talk, they might help him. Then again, if they could talk, they could tell the world about the evil birch trees and they wouldn't even have this problem...

_Get a grip_. John told himself, seeing as he was debating with himself the usefulness of talking trees. He doubled back on himself, walking backwards and forwards attempting to see abnormal tracks, but found none, so instead, he tried to backtrack on where the dog had jumped out from. The left, and he knew the grave to be more behind him, and it was safe to say that the dog would not have travelled outside of the woods, nor too far judging by the timing of the scream he had heard and the speed in which the undead canine had appeared. He started walking, flashlight shining, eyes trained, searching.

**

* * *

**

Intuition is a funny little thing, following it, and being wrong, is a horrible feeling, or maybe, if your intuition was foretelling of a bad thing, you feel better knowing that you were wrong. But in most cases, especially when someone is smart enough to take note of intuition, it tends to be correct. So when Sam's foreboding kicked in as soon as Dean left for the hunt that night, he knew he should have said something. He felt the fear deeply engraved into his bones and he knew, knew more than anything that he should have gone too, or at least given some kind of warning, or told his father to be extra vigilant.

That would earn him a glare no doubt. After all, the man tended to pride himself on the training he administered to his boys, and by saying something like that Sam ran the risk of hurting Dean's feelings, making him think he was inadequate, and patronising his father, something he dared never do.

He looked back at the papers around him, he had managed almost four sides, though he was sure a lot of it was simply prattling on that he would be rid of after any proof reading, but considering how highly strung his emotions were at that time, it was quite an accomplishment. He looked over at the clock, his brother and father had been gone almost three hours, but still he didn't go to sleep. He rarely did when they were hunting without him, the worry was too great, and he often enjoyed hearing the stories his family brought back with them as they leaned back and relaxed, picking at the food they had grabbed on the way that Sam never had a taste for so early in the morning.

He always stayed up late, and he never felt tired, because he knew how exhausted they must be, and all Sam had to do was write. He was getting cramp from holding a pen upright for so long while they were walking around, their fingers numb from holding on to a sawed off shotgun for so long, so tightly.

Four pages filled with his best and worst work. Four pages of dripping ink, drying slowly in blue calligraphy as he could write no more. Four pages, and he wasn't even half way through, but he couldn't help wonder if it all been worth it…?

* * *

He shouldn't have been so shocked. He'd seen wounds worse than this, he'd seen war and humans do worse than this, and he'd seen his son in bad shape before, but so far, there had never been quite so much blood from one child, and in truth, that's all John would ever see his son as, no matter how old, because he would always be so young in John's eyes, and no doubt he would always keep a hold on his immature defence mechanism as he hid behind the mask of a comedian unfazed by the events unfolding in front of him.

John wished he had brought that mask, he needed it right now.

Dean's eyes were closed, his breathing shallow, so much so that the father barely saw his son's chest rise and fall. The waning moon, the killing moon shone in the sky still, but he had noticed the lighter surroundings, and knew midnight had long passed. He chanced a guess that it must be at least three am. They had to get out of here, if not for the morning coming's that might bring unwanted visitors, but for Dean's injuries that he had yet taken the time to access.

There were several bites along his chest and torso, but only one truly worried him, punctures in the skin that still bled freely where the shape of the fangs could be clearly made out. Broken skin providing red and John grabbed his pack searching for bandages he could wrap around until they were home and he could truly look after the wounds. There were scratches all across his skin, most of which seemed to be in defence from the creature, and he expected nothing less.

"Dean?" He called, touching his son's cheek softly. "Dean? Can you hear me, son?" He asked, and received only a mumble in return, but it was enough. "You're gonna be okay Dean, I promise." And under his breath he apologised as he set his legs, and took hold of his son in his arms. Though not heavy from excess weight, Dean had muscle, and John, though he hated to admit it, was not the youngest he would have like to be. The boy groaned, and just as he had suspected tried weakly to be let out of the hold that hurt him. John tried to sooth the boy as he walked, but knew he had to pay attention to the forest, he had to get to the car as quickly as possible. He had to get Dean home, now.

* * *

Sam's fears were brought to life when the door slammed open, the doorknob hanging by a thread from its hinge, the door looking as though it was on its last legs as John kicked it open, holding his oldest son in his arms. Arms covered in red blood, blossoming all over Dean's chest and torso, staining his clothes and making his pale complexion glow beneath the dark crimson.

"Dean?"

What he would accomplish he did not know, maybe he wanted his father to know he was there to help, maybe he wanted Dean to know, or maybe it was a part of him making sure he knew it really was his older brother in his father's arms, lying so still save for the hitching of his breath and the occasional moan as his father continued to move, storming through the house and making his way up the stairs. Sam scooted backwards on the landing instantly, allowing his father easy access. He then ran ahead while John still carried Dean up the stairs, and made sure the boy's bed was clear, made sure the pathway held no obstacles, as John paraded through and lowered Dean gently on to the bed. Dean whimpered at the pain, and John cringed at seeing his son so vulnerable, knowing it was his fault he was even there.

He had no idea what injuries his son held, the blood masked any chance of him finding out, but he was sure the blood flow had at least slowed since he had first found Dean lying on the grass, red grass, not green...

"Sam, I need you to get towels and fill the bucket under the sink with warm water, not too hot." Sam nodded, his homework forgotten as he avoided the trail of blood on the floor leading up the stairs to where Dean lay shivering. He raced through the house, entering the kitchen, and throwing random cleaning utensils out of the cabinets under he saw the peach bucket. He ran the tap, waited a moment, and began to fill it to the brim with water. He saw two more first-aid kits on the counter, and realised his father might need them as well as the one he was already using. He threw as many towels as he could find over his shoulder, took hold of the bucket his left hand, and the kits balancing on top of each other in his right hand.

Carefully, and quickly, he made his way back up the stairs, each step making the water swish and swoosh around in the bucket, but none spilled. Sam wouldn't let any spill. He walked back in, placed the bucket to the side, near where John knelt, and unloaded the towels, opening them up. Though injuries this severe were not overly frequent, Sam still knew what to do.

He opened up the kits, giving his father easy access to the bandages, gauze and sterile supplies, and watched in horror as the towels, dipped in lukewarm water, were stained pink-red almost instantly. He stared at Dean once more, and saw the small beads of sweat lining his forehead. He ran back downstairs, grabbing a smaller towel, or maybe a dishcloth he wasn't entirely sure, but it was clean. He ran the tap, this time waiting for it to turn cold, and held the material under it. He squeezed any excess liquid before sprinting back, and placing the cool cloth on Dean's forehead.

His brother's head tilted towards him, but stayed unconscious all the while, the pain, Sam was sure, was far too great for Dean to wake up just yet. His body wasn't stupid, after all. He helped whenever he could to wipe the worst of the blood away, and helped hand instruments to his father, tensing when the man asked for the holy water, which Sam understood only too well. After all, the dog had been dead...

Dean reacted instantly to the liquid, crying out in more pain, and when John heard Sam's own whimpers and innocence asking if this was necessary, he sent the boy out, knowing that it was only going to get worse when it came to stitching up the grizzly bites and marks. Upon further inspection John had been incredibly relieved to see that the worst of the bites hadn't even reached bone, but it had been relatively deep all the same, hence the sheer amount of blood. He could hear Sam's small cries from outside, but steeled himself. Dean needed him right now; Sam would have to fend for himself.

The youngest Winchester swiped the tears away with a flick of his wrists, angered that they had fallen to begin with when many times John had drilled the mantra that tears would solve nothing.

After all, what good are tears when the mighty hath fallen? With no one left to protect, it fell to the innocent to fight for their country, for their nation and beliefs. When the battle rages on, the strong do not sit and weep over those they have lost, they fight, they win, and they leave the battlefield victorious, their hearts heavy, broken and torn, but their flag's waving in the wind, swaying to the side as their steps falter from grief.

Their flag is raised high, and that's all that matters. It didn't matter that their enemy benefited from their deaths more so than their own side, and it didn't matter of all of the casualties, because a twisted form of good had fought evil, and won, that was what mattered. That good came out and won, that those of pure hearts let their light shine brighter than the sun until the spear of malice pierced their heart and covered them with the shroud of darkness that crept up behind death, hidden in the folds of his robe.

The bohemian revolution matters not, what good is Truth when there are none left to tell it. What good is beauty when the beautiful are smeared with blood and gaping wounds leaving rivers of crimson in their wake. What good is freedom, when fighting for it is doing something you don't truly believe in, when by fighting for freedom, you are only limiting yourself?

What good is love, when tainted? What good is love, when those who deserve are left alone, and those who have it, never appreciate it? Not until they too are thrown to the side, to the proverbial curb, and left in the cold of loneliness, shivering in defeat. _Merry Christmas the War is Over_, now let's start another.

What good was a fucking History essay, when Dean was bleeding from a fatal wound? What good was his education when it didn't teach him how to deal with this kind of thing every day? What good were his begging, pleading, to not have to go, and Dean's risk to his own life, when now in perspective; Sammy couldn't care less about the essay? Not when Dean was next door, and their father was fighting to keep him alive. Not when he felt the fear creeping in, that he would never see his brother smile again.

He felt colder than he had ever felt before, because of the notion flying through his head that this was indeed his fault, that all of this could be turned around and the blame could be placed wholeheartedly on himself. Would his father see it that way? He shuddered at the thought, at the rebute, at the shouting that would surely follow should this happen. More importantly, would Dean see it that way? Would Dean get the chance to see it that way? He could hear his father calling to him now, telling him to get more towels, to grab any alcohol from downstairs, to hurry up, and he did so without a moment to spare.

He steeled himself for what he might see, a bloody sight, or maybe even his brother's corpse, pale, dead lying on the bed, what shocked him more were the eyes, hazel-green staring at him in so much pain, so lost, but not confused. Waiting for it all to be over, not paying attention to whatever John was telling his now awake son, Dean only stared at Sam, and for a moment, for a dwindling second of tension throwing itself at Sam, both wondered how this would all play out, but Dean took the high ground, unable to blame his brother for anything, not even when he was indeed to blame, not unless they had had a particular large fight the night before at least. No, he dared smile at Sam, who felt the guilt lessen somewhat as he helped his father take care of Dean.

Dean wore the mask of a smile, that indeed, wasn't really a mask at all, or maybe he was only using it to mask the pain, but the intentions were far from faked.

Once again, Dean had tried to protect Sammy, maybe on a subconscious level; the oldest son had known how dangerous it would be, and had accepted the possibilities, not wanting Sam to be a part of it. Or maybe Dean was just trying to do right as a brother, though, technically it was all the same. Either way, yet again, Dean had lived up to his rep as the over-protective, and sometimes smothering older brother that no one pushed him into being, but Dean himself expected to be.

**Please Review!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Okay, this time, it is my fault. And I'm sorry, but feel free to have a go at me for slow updates in a review! Go on, press the purple button! The one for a review mind you, not the rest…****Gone midnight over here, should really go to bed.**

**Fighting Talk**

"Why are you covered in mud?" John asked, his tone slightly amused, looking up from the paper, having seen Dean come in a few minutes in front of his youngest, breathless having raced his brother. Sam followed, and John was surprised to see the amount of dirt he was covered in. Dean had not questioned it, but now that John had, Sam's mood quickly deflated.

"Sammy?" Dean called, regaining oxygen, watching concerned, and Sam ran to the middle of the staircase, sitting there with his elbows resting on his knees. "What happened?"

"They tripped me." He said quietly, to Dean only. "And I fell."

Dean nodded, he didn't need to ask who, in truth, it didn't really matter. There were always going to be bullies, and they tended to go for the smaller children in the younger classes. He tried to brush off the larger clumps of mud from the boys trousers, smiling and giving his brother a light punch on the arm.

"Don't worry, Sammy, I'll kick their asses for you."

"You'll do no such thing!" Suddenly, John had finished the artcle he had been reading, and joined his son's by the stairs, hearing the words, and only anger remained in his face. Any amusement was long gone.

"But Dad-?"

"No, Dean! You have the advantage, it isn't fair."

"But he's older!" Sam whined in protest, referring to the bully,having become attached to the idea of Dean saving the day.

"I don't care, boys, I mean it, no fighting in school!"

"Why?"

"Because I said so that's why! Now go to your rooms." John cried, equally annoyed by the lack of respect he was receiving. "And if I find out that either of you have been fighting, you'll be grounded for a year!"

Dean had listened, and he had understood, but most functions of the brain, like comprehension all went out the window when you're walking through the playground, and you see them crowding around your little brother. Fists so much bigger than his, or yours, bodies taller, shadows longer. It isn't fair that they're picking on him, and it isn't fair that hew as told not to fight. He soon forgets that when he sees a fist raise. He hurtles forward and pushes the biggest to the ground. Remembering his father's training to take out the big guy first. He can't catch you unawares if he's down.

And go down, he did, and it took all of his self control for the momentum to not make him join him. He ran forward, between his brother and the bullies, and as one sneered, coming forward, Dean Winchester had had enough.

"Get the hell away from my brother." Dean growled in a low and menacing tone, so much that even Sam himself flinched. Dean's head was telling him time and time again that his father would be majorly pissed if he lay a finger on this bully, but his heart, as always, was reminding him of how scared Sammy had looked, how intimidated the young boy had been.

And fists flew from every direction, save for Sam's, who was crouching at his brother's request, hands over his head, keeping to the ground, watching as feet went up and down, if he squinted it could look like hopping, but the grunts that followed the supposed game of hopscotch, let him know that the kicks were carefully aimed. Another and another, Dean's head screaming at them, but his lips pressed into a thin line. _No one messes with my brother._

And the voice, shrill, and dripping with shock and authority made his leg fall down, his knee never hitting its target of that particular bullies crown-jewels.

"Dean Winchester, my office, now!"

And dejected, the young boy followed the footsteps of the woman in front of him, and trudged up the stairs back into the school building and along the dingy corridors that lead to the headmistress' office.

* * *

"Fighting!" John cried, spinning around on his son, "What?"

Dean stayed in his chair, quiet, and head bowed, Ms Arnolds gazed at him for a moment, and then turned back to Mr. Winchester.

"Dean's grades are average and though his detentions show his lack of enthusiasm toward learning, he does achieve passing test results, but this is his second warning."

"Second?"

"Yes, the first was more of a formality, he was over-heard threatening one of the other pupils but the boy in question failed to comply."

"And why is that?"

"I assume he didn't want to publicize the fact that a boy two years younger than him was at all intimidating." She said, hiding a smile. John cocked an eyebrow in Dean's direction, but still the boy said nothing. He wasn't stupid; he recognized authority when he saw it, especially with his father present. He was a good son, he wouldn't disappoint.

"Either way, fighting will not be tolerated in this school."

"He's a good kid." John said, allowing a touch of vulnerability to show in his voice to reel in the headmistress into his act. "I know he won't do it again."

She sighed. "If Dean might try and explain himself, I might be able to sympathize...?" She left the comment open to question, looking once more at Dean, and John realized that maybe the silence wasn't only reserved for him.

"Dean?" The boy looked up at his father, who's voice was filled with disappointment. "Why did you start the fight?"

"I didn't, Dad." He said, keeping any whine far from his tone. "He did, he was bullying Sammy." And like a light bulb in a very dark room, everything made so much sense, and John wondered why he hadn't thought of it before.

"Young man, you cannot take matters into your own hands, you should have gotten a teacher."

John could tell from his son's tense shoulders that the boy had many things to say in return, that would justify his actions, but he kept it to himself, though he and every other child knew, that telling a teacher would do nothing but earn them the nickname of being a grass. Jeffrey was older, bigger, and had a very rich father. He would never be tossed out of school for fighting, but Dean? Dean was younger, and smaller, though granted his training made him stronger than most boys his age. Dean's father was relatively unknown. He only ever came to the school when it was absolutely necessary, which had only been twice, including now. The first time, Dean had been knocked down playing football, and his nose was so bloody, that Sam, who had seen it all from across the playground, had screamed for their father.

Looking at Dean, John knew it had been no football, and now understood why Sam had kept so quiet about it, when normally he would describe everything in great detail in case it helped his brother.

"This boy, the older kid, is he being punished as well?"

"There's nothing to suggest he was anything more than a victim. The other children never saw him hit back." The conversation was coming to an end, and he stood up, preparing to shake her hand and understand the consequences that his son would be expelled. As his son got off of the large chair, he saw the wince hidden so well, and knew something was wrong.

"Dean, lift up your shirt."

The boys head shot up, a rabbit caught in headlights, and John schooled himself to not be swayed. After a staring contest worthy of the Greek Gods, Dean complied and lifted up the long sleeved shirt he wore. The bruising had yet not fully shown up, and John was sure by morning they would stick out even more, but even now, when it had only been some three hours since the fight, small purplish circles could be seen, where the older boy had jabbed Dean. John stared, he couldn't be sure that this wasn't simply the work of a recent hunt, or tussling with his younger brother. Dean would have to confirm it for him.

"Mr. Winchester, we cannot assume, unless." She turned to Dean, whose face was bright red. "Dean tells us where he got the bruises."

Dean thought about it. If he told, he'd have some serious problems to deal with, and so would Sam. Being the brother of a grass would not be taken lightly. He would have to lie.

"Dean? Did Jeffrey Summers give you those bruises?"

Dean looked down at his feet, before looking back up, shaking his head. "No."

* * *

"I don't believe you! I told you no fighting! And what do you go and do? Fight!"

John was more than angry, he had given his son's an order and expected it to be carried out. Now Dean was on suspension, something he had been told about after arriving home, the headmistress having been lenient this time, but warning him that she would not do so again. This could raise questions over how the boys were raised, which would bring social services into the mix, and he couldn't risk letting go of his son's, or anyone poking around in his business. Why couldn't his boys just understand that?

"Dad-."

"Don't you dare talk back to me! I am your father!"

Dean was silenced.

"No TV, no going outside, no avoiding chores. Your homework will be done as soon as you get home, and you will clean your weapons every night. No target practice, no snacks. You will stay in your room and only come out when I say so, is that clear?"

"Yes Sir."

John got into the car, and leaned over the passenger side window.

"You will wait here for your brother, and walk straight home, you hear me?"

"Yes, Sir."

* * *

He waited for what seemed like hours, though in truth, it could not have been more than half. He waited on the steps to the smaller kids classes, and only stood up when they rushed out, eager to get home, each one of the with little backpacks, and glowing faces, some covered in paint, others in dirt, but none of them staying clean. He was easily twice the size of the children, and Sam spotted his brother immediately, relief evident after some of his classmates had offered their condolences, well aware that some never made it out of the principal's office. Maybe believing that to go in there, meant to be eaten alive...

He held his hand out, and instantly Sam's smaller palm was entwined in the larger fingers, the knuckles still bruises and red from the earlier punch-up. Sam wondered if he should apologize, but in truth, he knew Dean would always protect him, and Sam hadn't really done anything wrong except dawdle in handing over his lunch money. He didn't even need it, but he had it anyway, left over from the day when there had been no bread left at home, and he'd been forced to queue for the soggy sandwiches the school offered.

Lanky shadows danced across sun kissed pavements, and Sam felt his brother's hand tighten around his own. He abandoned his staring at the green grass, and bright cars that passed by, and now stared up at his tormentors. His bullies. They were far enough away from school to not be seen by teachers now.

"Come on, Sammy." Dean said, walking past them, his own head down, not stupid enough to make another fight.

"Well look who it is, boys!" The head boy, Jeffrey commented, his cocky swagger having returned full force after an afternoon of flirting with girls who hated his guts, but only fueled his deranged thoughts of them playing hard to get and classes filled with him ignoring his teachers and listening to his cronies telling him that he was taken by surprise and that was the only reason he had been beaten the way he had.

As Dean walked by him, he grabbed his shoulder and pushed him hard to the ground. Sammy tried to hold on, but couldn't as Dean toppled and landed with a loud thud on the ground. His head collided with the pavement harshly. For a moment he was dazed and the sun glared at him, before Jeffrey's face blocked it all out, and he was pulled to his feet and punched in the stomach, doubling him over, and slowly the fight made its way to the corners of a building, into a small alleyway.

"I'm not going to fight you." Dean said calmly, wiping his split lip, and bloody nose, smearing the blood across his face, but stopping any distracting drips.

"Aw mommy's boy doesn't wanna fight me!" And the words dug deep, they all knew of the Winchester's family arrangement, and Jeffrey had gone too far. Dean couldn't help himself. He pulled his fist back and wiped the grin right off Jeffrey's face with a deafening _smack!_

"That's for Sammy." He growled, as Jeffrey cried and fell backwards onto his cronies, all of them tumbling like dominoes in the alleyway. Jeffrey favored his nose, glaring.

"You little shit." The older boy said angrily. "I'll get you for that."

"Yeah? And then everyone will know you couldn't defend yourself against a kid younger than you!" As he said the words, he was trying to get Sam away, pushing the boy slightly. Push turning into a shove when he saw Jeffrey lunge for him. He tried to duck out of the way, but Jeffrey grabbed his leg and brought him down.

Sam desperately wanted to help, but knew better than to distract his brother. He ran to the entrance of the alley and stopped, waiting, in fear. Something grabbed him by the arm and pulled and at first he fought back, crying out.

"Damn it Sammy, it's me!" And the struggling stopped, and he noticed the need to leave, now. They took off at a run, and when Sam's pace slowed, Dean grabbed him into his arms, and ran for the both of them, never chancing a look back, not once letting the screams of his ribs breathe oxygen. He had shoved Jeffrey into a pile of trashcans and while he had tried to disentangle himself from the rubbish now covering his designer clothes, he had done a runner.

"Where have you been?" John asked, his back to his son's as he read the paper, simmering slightly still.

"Getting Sammy." Dean said simply, and Sam looked up, waiting for him to tell their father, but never getting the chance.

"Go upstairs." John said, resigned, and Dean did as he was told without saying a word. He ignored Sam as he tried to call him from the living room; he had homework to get done, but despite that, the first thing he did was go to the bathroom. There was no point in showcasing having been in another fight. He had no idea that Sam was no telling his father everything. How they had attacked Dean, how they had bullied him, how the teachers could do, and did nothing, and how Dean had resolutely told them he would not fight, and only did so in defense.

Save for that one deserving punch, and a few kicks that Sammy left out, and as Dean smiled at his grim reflection in the mirror, happy that his nose was not broken, and his wounds were superficial at best, the worst being the bruising to his ribs, he had no idea that John had left the house, and he would never know that John had found the residence of his son's attackers. He would never know the threats dealt out to the parents of the git-that-was-Jeffrey, and he would hide his pleasure the next day, when Jeffrey went out of his way to apologize and make it clear that the Winchester's were a no go area. He would even hide his surprise, and he would walk Sam home every day, glad to know they wouldn't be bothered again.

**Please, please, please, please review!**


	7. Chapter 7

**I'm sorry! And you know I am, so I'll just give this long chapter as a peace offering and hope you don't kill me!**

**Mask of the Hidden**

Maybe the Masks of their lives held them all together. Maybe letting too many people in was a bad thing? Being vulnerable was a bad thing? And maybe that was his father's drilled mantra he was thinking of right now, rather than what Sammy should and normally would be feeling.

He was lying next to his brother, after his father had worked for so long to get the wounds stitched up, thanking whatever Lord there was that Dean had stayed unconscious throughout, blacking out after a particularly bad turn once John had begun to clean the wounds with holy water, well aware that the undead creature could leave unseen marks if not treated properly.

Now, Sam hadn't been able to sleep, and after his father had disposed of the bloody sheets, and laid Dean back down to rest, Sam had quickly gone to his brother's side, at first planning only to sit near him, and fall asleep when things were better, but sleep had begun to overtake him, and in truth, he had tried to simply rest his head down, but his body was growing and the bed was lower than it should be while the chair was taller. Gravity was against him, and his back ached in that position so carefully, not jolting his brother once, he slowly crept next to Dean, the bed barely sinking as he lowered his body down into the pillows, taking solace in the faint breaths his brother took in the silence of the room.

He didn't see his father watching in the doorway as he felt the tug of sleep too strong to fight, and simply obeyed. He didn't see his father lean against the doorway, and had no idea how long John simply stood there watching over his boys throughout the night.

* * *

Was it so wrong, that John found comfort in what he saw? Granted he was pushing away the fact that his son was injured, lying so still to avoid jostling his injuries, and choosing to focus more on the fact that though Sammy had no doubt fallen asleep some time ago, Dean still had his arm around the boy's shoulder, refusing to sleep himself. His hand absently stroking the locks of his brother's hair that were getting longer and longer day by day.

Was it wrong that he stood in the doorway and told himself not to go in? Was it wrong that he preferred to watch from a distance as though it would protect his son's more if he were distanced from them.

Was it wrong that even now, his mind strayed to what he could only see as the inevitable, their deaths. Though he would adamantly insist that he go first, he knew that meant leaving his son's alone. But they had each other, wasn't that enough? Who did John have? No that wasn't fair, because he knew that when push comes to shove, even Sammy-who at times wanted nothing to do with his father, would be willing to comfort if the need arose.

Who did Dean have? Sammy was straying further from him, and Dean's constant attempts to protect the younger boy from the cruelties of the world and let him have some kind of normalcy was only setting them both up for a fall. One that would leave many bruises. Many, many bruises.

Was this life so wrong?

Yes, yes, god yes. It was all wrong, and it wouldn't be right until he found vengeance, until all of them got their revenge. And even then, things would never be right. John looked to the edge of the tunnel and saw the lights of the flames of the demon he hunted. But once it was extinguished, the light would be gone. And there would be no other lights to starve away the darkness. So why then did he bother?

The same reason he left Mike's that night, or rather, morning, dawn. The same reason he'd had enough of the glances and the sympathy soon turning into strong advice telling him to get his act together, if not for himself, then for his son's.

But that never helped. So instead he crept into his son's room, having already packed the car with necessities and small items that would keep his boys happy. He picked Dean up carefully, and shushing him quietly as the boy stirred, and then quieted at his father's gentle command to go back to sleep. He was placed in the car, a belt secured around him, and John quickly dashed back into the house, hating having to leave his son even for a second, in what was most likely the safest street in Kansas.

But no neighbourhood watch had saved Mary that night...

He had held the sleeping bundle of his youngest son so carefully, as he put him into the baby seat he and Mary had bought together, and he had recalled his own happiness at finally fitting the thing into the front seat. God it had taken forever, but Dean and Mary had kept him company, his wife joking at how simple it must be, and Dean throwing his ball carefully within the confines of the garden and within sight of his parents. Sam had been sleeping then too, sitting in his own bassinet that lay perched on the wall beside Mary...

That's when he had grabbed the camera and taken one of the last pictures he bothered to save, and scrawled on the back was; _The Winchesters. John, Mary, Dean and little Sammy_. The picture now kept carefully inside of his precious journal among the precarious newspaper clippings, and heart-wrenching diary entries he had added though the haze of alcohol made it hard to focus in the dim light of his room.

Another entry would be added tonight, speaking of his son's, their strengths, their weaknesses, his hopes for them, his dreams, like so many of the other entries he would sit, and try to write optimism and pray that hope came out in the scripture but like every other entry it would only serve as a harsh reminder that he had failed, and be nothing more than a lousy father, who had put them in danger more times than he could count.

God he wanted them to remain close. Together. Through thick and thin. But tonight, tonight had rattled them all. Dean assumed his father couldn't see through the mask of an independent hunter, but he had, he had seen through as though it were completely transparent and beneath was nothing more than a devoted brother, a loyal son, trying to keep everyone happy, like always.

Sammy had come to him first, had mentioned a term paper or essay of some sorts but he already knew the question waiting to be asked, and he knew what the answer would always be. The hunt was more important, and the boy had to understand that. But he had gotten to his older brother, the simple use of those puppy dog eyes that left John always harbouring a softer side for his youngest, would get their way once again.

This wasn't something they would look back on fondly, nor was it something they could correct. Dean hadn't had anyone to watch his back, and he had suffered so Sam could get some work done. He had gone through the pain, taking it in his stride, despite the agony no doubt still raging through him, just so he wouldn't have to deal with the bitter little brother Sam became when he didn't get his way. Dean had been played, but there was no point in discussing it. Sam had already shown a great talent in holding onto guilt, and maybe this time, he deserved it. He had been more than selfish, and he had placed his brother's life in jeopardy.

_But you always do that._

A cruel voice sang in his head, that he completely agreed with but disregarded for the time being. Dean would be harsher next time, though it would be a while until Sam dared refuse a hunt, now that Dean would be out of commission for at least a week. The boy had a knack for bouncing back quickly, but that did nothing to quell John Winchester's own doubts.

John looked up, having stared at his white knuckles as his thoughts strayed to memories long buried. He saw his oldest son's eyes starting to droop and resisted the urge to kiss him goodnight. The boy, man, was nineteen, and John knew the affection, that would be shrugged away as sappy by his son, would only scare him. Things had to be serious if a cold-hearted-bastard like himself suddenly decided to kiss his son goodnight, right?

Right.

So he stayed, counting under his breath as the seconds dragged by and watched as Dean found it harder to stay awake. His eyes closed completely for a second, and then opened once more. Dean looked around, scanned the room quickly, before yawning and leaning back, further into his brother's now slack embrace. He let Sam be, with his arm tossed over his older brother's chest, and he lay his own head down next to the younger Winchester's head, avoiding pulling at stray hairs that would no doubt wake him up.

He smacked his lips together, ridding his mouth of any excess spit, bile, or blood as his eyes drooped once more, and stayed closed in sleep, finally.

* * *

The light that streamed through the small crack in the curtains was laden with dust as the sun rose outside in the early hours of the morning, and on the bed, Sam slowly stirred beneath the weight of his brother, who though still rested fairly upright, his back leant against the headboard, Dean's subconscious allowing his brother to sleep unhindered no doubt, which looked incredibly uncomfortable, but he assumed the pain-killers his brother had downed were working their magic in keeping Dean far from the waking world while his body tried to recover.

Sam shifted ever so slightly, and cringed, stopping suddenly when the movement in position made Dean's arm fall from his shoulders and land on his brother's own stomach, but still, he did not wake. Sam let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding and slowly pried himself off of the bed as quietly as possible, and crept out of the room after ensuring the blanket was secure around his brother's form. His brother needed rest, and he would be sure to get it, if he was left alone.

Everyone is unique but at the same time, most people do in fact fit into some kind of stereotype or quota. One of which, is the big brother. Now, most big anything's, be it brothers, sisters, or giants (though more often that not they all seem to coincide) are easily frustrated. Because for there to be a big brother, there is a definite indication of another presence, that being something-small. And when anything small is around, patience is often forgotten and Sam was sure his older brother fit into that category perfectly.

They all wore masks from time to time, but never the mask of a brother, and never the mask of a father or a son, because they were the only things that were constant, the things that were not hidden, or faked. They were real; they reminded them of who they were, of who their family was. Of whom the Winchesters would always be.

John saw his son's mask pain, and sadness, but never the love for each other even when hidden beneath a burning hatred that would die out in time. Dean saw his little brother pretend all the time, put on the mask that he didn't mind hunting before showing his true colors in loathing the job. Sam's brother was older, and his brother was the _older brother_, the protector, the hunter, he was everything. But then he would turn around and surprise him, and remind him that yes, everyone is unique, and he really didn't need to give the snowflake speech to anyone, because they were more unique than most, even amongst the falling snow, the glistening of the flakes still stand out, especially when they fall and land on the dark coats before melting into nothing.

They were falling, and they were all very different, but they wouldn't melt, not just yet, the freeze was far from over, and that much, Sam knew for sure. Intuition is a funny thing, and sometimes it would do well to listen to it. Either way, regret is pointless, denial is too. Acceptance however, in removing the mask, was pretty damn important in the Winchester household. Oh yes, and it always would be so long as chick flick moments were heavily frowned upon, and the demon that ruined their lives still roamed free.

* * *

Days passed, almost a week and finally Dean's body began to heal quite well. The blood had begun clotting some time ago, and the skin was slowly re-grafting itself to replace that which was lost. He had woken up fully and been completely coherent two days after the incident, and the pain, thanks to many pain killers and _borrowed_ antibiotics and medicine, had receded somewhat too, but Dean was far from fully healed. John had assumed Dean knew that much, but one day as he walked into the boy's room he saw how he had underestimated the determination Dean held to be back on his feet prematurely. The simple lie of, _"I'm fine, Dad." _Making many an appearance throughout.

He saw his son trying to gain his breath on the floor, a fresh coat of sweat lining his forehead and he ran forward, grabbing the boy's shoulders when he tried to get up.

"Dean? What are you doing?"

"What's it look like?" Dean retorted, angry at his own weakness and inability to breathe and taking it out on his father, who was quick to remind him that that kind of attitude would not be tolerated. "Sorry." Dean muttered, still trying to suck in as much air as possible and wincing at the pain in his chest that still lingered despite any time that had passed.

"Are you trying to kill yourself?" John asked, incredulous that his son was doing sit ups when only a week ago, he had almost bled to death. Dean gritted his teeth, pushing against the older man, and together, managing to get Dean sitting on his bed. More deep breaths were gulped like a man nearly drowned, and John gave his son the moments he needed to regain the deprived air.

"Dean," His father started, and the boy was so tempted to mimic the tone, with his father's name, but knew better. Far better. So he sat waiting for whatever lecture he was about to receive.

"Look, I know it's hard, but you have to pace yourself."

And Dean looked up at his father, half surprised at the gentle words spoken. Half saddened that it was the truth hidden in the tone. Dean wasn't one for patience when it came to himself. Hunting? Oh yes. He could stake out a house all night should he be with his father, and together they would sit, tense, ready for battle, but around Sam...Around Sam he was a child, he acted his age, younger sometimes, and he didn't hold back any boredom he felt. He was cautious, always on edge, but after a while of nothing, that led to a familiar whine from the back of his throat, turning into a grunt of annoyance.

He didn't want to feel like this, and he hated the notion that he, the great Dean Winchester, soldier, brother, and hunter extraordinaire might be useless. This wasn't his first injury, but so far, it seemed, it was his worst, most grievous one. His father had been truly afraid when drenched with the coppery smelling blood of his eldest child, whom he would always see as his little boy. Though Sammy was his littlest. He tried to comfort Dean as best he could, but he knew the boy was eager to rejoin the battle. The hunt. Everyday life for the Winchesters, and training was one of them. Indeed, he had seen the forlorn expression on Dean's weary face, when John had asked Sammy to go over some of his sparring work with him. He had seen the pain, though more inside than out, flitter across there for a moment, lingering slightly, before he pretended to sleep once more.

He did that a lot nowadays, and as his father gave him one last look he groaned, conceded, and got himself back under the covers of his bed, closing his eyes, intending to feign sleep, but suddenly caught out when his father didn't leave, and instead, sat on the floor next to the bed, as though warding off an unseen evil, or maybe just keeping his own conscience at bay, Dean didn't know, but now he was forced to fake sleep so much, that that was just what he did. Fall asleep.

Moonlight slipped through half closed curtains, shabby and unkempt, but attuned to their career choice of keeping away the sun in the early hours of the morning and stopping the worst of the streetlamps at night. When he woke up in the middle of the night, for a moment, he dared wonder why. Then he heard them. Fighting. Again. He couldn't believe his own stupidity to forget what his brother and father were best at, and gritted his teeth at the pain as he lifted himself off of the bed, and went to the top of the stairs. He could barely hear the words, but the tones were loud enough, the shouts and screams. It was a wonder the whole neighbourhood didn't wake up at sound, but Dean realised they probably did.

"I am not going on another hunt, and neither is Dean!"

Now _that_, he heard, quite easily, and cocked his eyebrow at what was said.

Since when had Sam become his protector, or rather, his keeper? When had he told Sam he didn't want to hunt, when had he given Sam permission to speak as such to their father? Their authority figure? He racked his brain, and predictably enough came up blank, which meant he was right, but more importantly, Sam was way out of line right now.

Dean had felt weak, yes, and he wouldn't deny he had seriously considered if he was up to hunting. Not because he didn't want to, or because he was afraid, but simply because by getting injured he deemed himself an unfit hunter, though he was anything but. He told himself he had failed, and let everyone down, though in truth, he knew how wrong he was. Dean knew when his father ushered assurance to him, while John's hands were stained red from his son's crimson life-force. He had known when Sam had looked so broken at seeing his older brother like that, and now he knew Sam was trying to protect him because of that.

But the important thing to understand right now, was despite it all, they were still fighting, and he was still the damn net in that fateful game of tennis, even when he wasn't in the same room. He didn't want to be in that game, he never wanted to, not because he didn't want to stop things from going out of hand, or buffer the worst of the worst, but because the reason they fought, though many times different, always came back to Sam being rebellious in their father's eyes, and John, the ex marine unwilling to compromise.

Slowly, as they always did, the fight wore down until it became nothing more than a few sentences from John and the occasional nod from Sam, willing to admit when he was beaten, and not stupid enough, yet, to go back for more. The hatred simmered to mild annoyance, cooling every second, and when John left Sam in the living room and went upstairs to check on his oldest son, his obedient son, who listened to his orders, and had come so close to death only a few days before, he cried out when he saw that Dean was gone.

**Please Review**


	8. Chapter 8

**Thanks again to the reviewers :)**

**Biting Down**

Training had never been a chore, not really. Sometimes, Dean truly wondered if his body could take much more, and he knew, from hearing his whining, that Sam thought the same, though granted, it was thought some hour or so before Dean would admit to similar feelings. But it was never, no, scratch that, it was seldom used as a punishment, John knew better than to make his son's do something they enjoyed, even if it did better their reflexes.

Thankfully enough, the boys never really needed punishment, not the kind that would deserve months of being grounded (which would never have worked seeing as how often they travelled around the place.) John found his disappointed glare, coupled with a few guilt-inducing words were more than enough to stop a repeat performance.

Parents can be manipulative too.

They had been training when she had come along. Beautiful and dangerous, and they should have noticed then that she kept to the shadows of the hotel. Never stepping into the sun for longer than a second and even then, they should have noticed the minute billows of smoke as her feet made contact with the sun-kissed tarmac…

The small hotel was a step up for the Winchesters. With no motel's in the area, it would have to do, and it did. There was a larger car park for the boys to run around in, and their rooms were nicer. They weren't used to hallways upon opening the door, and lifts to take you up and down. They had only travelled in it once, upon arriving at 3am and helping their father take in their bags for the next few days as they rested and he looked for the next hunt.

John didn't like hotels, and fought hard to keep the sour look from showing on his face as the woman at the desk, perky and polite, far too much for the early hours and _she_ had clearly not been driving for hours on end with two young boys recently, told him quite pleasantly that she was sorry but there were no rooms available on the ground floor, nor the first, or second. The third however, they were in luck, had just opened up, leaving four rooms available up there, and he was given the choice between a family room, or two separate rooms.

He of course picked neither, the family rooms were extortionately over priced, and two rooms were pushing his budget. He paid for one, knowing that Sam and his small frame would be fine on the sofa-bed for now while he and Dean could share the double. The woman gave him a dubious glance, momentarily stunned into her real persona at having lost money. Her face showing how tired she really was, her shoulders dropping slightly, as she handed them the key to room 406.

"Why isn't it three-oh-six, dad?" The high pitched voice of his young pre-puberty years son asked as he trailed along after his father and brother, carrying a much lighter load than the oldest Winchester and the fifteen year old

"What, Sam?" The bag kept slipping off his shoulder and he was constantly readjusting the strap to the point where Dean interjected asking if he wanted it to be carried for him, to which John shook his head, and Sam, seeing them stop talking, asked again.

"We're on the third floor, why isn't it three-oh-six?"

"Because technically, Sammy, this is the fourth floor and the ground floor is the first floor." Dean replied when it was clear John had more pressing issues to deal with. Like looking at every number on every door while trying to keep his bag in the vicinity of his shoulder.

"So the first floor is the second floor, and the second floor is the third floor and the third floor is the fourth floor and the fourth-."

"Yes, Sammy." Dean said, berating himself for answering at all.

"Why don't they just call the first floor the first floor, Dean?"

The door opened, and John put the card-key into the holder, letting the light's switch on automatically as he did so, and dumping the bags into the open wardrobe, straying to the bathroom to get away from his son's. Dean, like any normal person, was tired from navigating and keeping his father awake through the night as they drove. Sam, had fallen asleep in the car, and was now far too awake for any of their own good.

Dean followed his father in, doing the same with the bags, and looking around the room, checking the locks on the window, and closing the curtains tighter. Sam had yet to receive an answer, and had not forgotten thus.

"Dean?"

The toilet was flushing, and Dean was already throwing pillows off of the sofa, and checking for the seams before opening it up, and using the sheets from the top of the wardrobe while Sam merely stood there. The white covers were unfolded, and spread out. Corner to corner Dean went about his work, stopping any creases from starting across the bed, as he knelt over it to reach the furthest edges of the make shift sofa-bed…thingy.

"Dean?"

"Because they're not as smart as you Sammy, now get ready for bed."

John hid a smile as he left the bathroom, and strayed over to the double, taking the side closest to the door while Dean took his place in the small, harshly lit room, splashing water over his face, and changing into his sweats, coming back to see Sam already lying in bed, holding the quilt over his chest, and looking up at the ceiling.

Dean knew he still had more questions, he always did, but they could wait until the morning, and eventually Sammy would fall asleep without the aid of answers, so Dean didn't feel guilty when he fell asleep as soon as he hit the pillow, and John? Any feelings he had were calmed by knowing of his gun so close by beneath his pillow.

* * *

After over an hour of sitting there, researching while his boy's laughed to themselves, John had finally cracked and ordered them to train together outside, but when Dean had reached for a weapon, John had told him "No." They couldn't risk anyone seeing them and reporting it, they would have to practise their co-ordination in the same way other children their age did.

He tossed Dean the ball he had brought in from the Impala. One of the few things that had even been kept from their old house in Lawrence, but had since had little use. Dean looked at his father, and wondered if he was telling them to train for that sake alone, or if John actually wanted to grant them normalcy for a little while. Dean took it all the same, and Sam followed his brother out to the parking lot.

The sun was high in the air, and Dean was glad to have left his jacket inside. The lot itself was almost completely devoid of cars. There was another lot around the front, and almost everyone was either in work, school, or enjoying whatever amusements were to be held in town. Dean tossed the ball at his brother, and felt bad when the boy didn't even have the sense to duck.

"That's not fair, we haven't started yet."

Dean rolled his eyes, as Sam picked up the ball at his feet and went to toss it.

But paused.

"I wonder if she's ill?" Sam asked, keeping the ball to himself suddenly, voicing out such random concerns as a child of his age, and tactless as he was, would. Dean turned around and looked at the woman walking through the car park near the walls. Yes she was pale, but it could be attributed to the darkness of her coat, or the stark rouge of her lips. Maybe her skin was naturally that pale, or maybe, Sam was right and she was ill. Either way, it had nothing to do with them.

Dean motioned for the ball to be returned and their game of catch resumed, but Sam's gaze wouldn't leave the woman, and simply because of that, Dean found himself staring too. At first, he had paid her no heed, of no importance to them and she was most likely thinking the same thing. Her attire alone let him know she was far from homeless. Her clothes were old, not worn, but vastly out-dated, but they still held such beautiful elegance, as though time could not touch them. The colours were deep, deep reds, deep purples, even a part of royal blue in her skirt, and dark boots, heeled, and leaving an echo of clapping as she walked upon the sheltered tarmac.

Her foot touched a patch of sunny cement, and she instantly drew it back, and Dean could have sworn he'd seen slight smoke billowing upward for a second, as she hissed inhumanely at whatever pain she felt. Dean looked from the direction the sun was. It was the middle of the day, and only the small shelter around the ground floor's back entrance was keeping any ground from practically sizzling in the direct sunlight.

Which this woman was avoiding.

"Sam, go get dad."

Sam looked up at his brother with confused eyes. Dean wasn't look back though, his eyes were trained on the woman, who had now noticed the too boys with hungry eyes. Sam wanted to ask why, wanted to ask why his brother was tense and ready, and why he had called him Sam rather than Sammy, but Dean's fists were clenched, and when he finally did look at his little brother his eyes were filled with a plea for Sam to listen. The younger boy nodded and quickly ran off.

The woman's head tilted to the left as she watched him with the awe of jealousy at his ability to run through night and day. She clicked her tongue, and looked to the boy's destination. The shadows reached there too, she could stop him. Have her meal. Dean saw the ghostly smile, and saw her lunge forward strangely, her coat cast behind her, as though it too were flying, though her feet stayed firmly on the ground. He gulped, and shouted "Hey! You!" But she paid him no heed. He cursed, and ran into the sheltered shadows, heading for the vampires. She was lithe and speedy, but her insistent avoidance of sunlight was making it harder to be as swift as usual, and Dean had the advantage. He grabbed out as he got close, holding on to her cape like garment and yanking enough to make her turn around. Turn on him.

Dean didn't dare break her gaze, he already knew Sam had reached the stairs, and hoped he was running like hell up every one.

* * *

_Vampires, the un-dead, a complete and utter bitch. _

Sam refocused, running up the stairs, pretending not to care about swearing when really he knew how annoyed his family would be. What hypocrites they were.

There was a vampire tussling with his brother, in the car park, and on the one hand he thanked god they were partially hidden by the walls and cars, but feared that this would be the perfect opportunity for an ambush.

He jumped over three stairs at the same time, no time to be pleased he had accomplished such a thing. She had been alone. One vampire, and the fact she was attacking during the day, on a rather sunny day to be honest, showed desperation. She had looked far more than hungry, and Sam wondered how long it had been since her last meal, and if that would fuel her attempts to take a chunk out of Dean's neck.

Four steps this time, he was close, less than a floor away. He wished he hadn't brought her to his brother's attention, he wished they never went outside at all. But he knew if they hadn't the dead-woman would have found her meal in another. At least this way she won't hurt anyone else.

_But she might hurt Dean._

He reached another landing and pressed on, still scaling them until he reached the door, threw it open and ran down the hallway.

* * *

"Little boy," She hissed, her tongue clicking against her fangs as they elongated, and left Dean cringing somewhat at the sight. Her cheekbones seemed to tighten, and her jaw widen as she let out a low howl, that seemed high pitched all at the same time. Her eyes glowed red and he almost laughed at how tempting it was to call her a string of insults. Hell, he knew enough to cause offence, but did he really want to encourage her to attack? Probably not, he knew Sam could run fast, but there were a lot of steps, and his brother wasn't stupid enough to jump inside of a lift that could break down, or be filled with perky guests who would insist on going everywhere but Sam's destination.

And by then, Dean could be dead.

_In the event of a fire, please do not use the lift. _

The signs around the hotel said simply. But Dean and his brother had already known from experience that it was easier, quicker and more efficient to take the stairs at a run rather than risk it. After all, seldom was luck on their side. She hissed again, and Dean was getting tired of her impression of a rattlesnake.

* * *

"Dad!" Sam called some seven doors away. "Dad!"

The door to their room opened, and John saw his youngest running full pelt toward him. "Sam? What is it? What's wrong?"

"Dean!" Sam managed to gasp, as he tried to catch his breath, though still frantic for his brother's safety. John's gaze changed instantly, on alert, a hunter, a protector and a father all ready.

"V-vampire, in the parking lot." Sam felt no comfort at the gaze that softened somewhat, if anything he felt alarm at the hands that held his shoulders, and the patronising voice telling him, "It's the middle of the day, Sam."

"She's not in direct sunlight, Dad, come on!" And the youngest tore from his father's hold, and began running once again, past the doors, his feet thudding onto the nice carpet, far nicer than any inside of the rooms, and jumped down as many stairs as he could, almost falling flat on his face more than once, but feeling a sense of relief at the familiar thudding of his father behind.

Soon John managed to catch up, his own balance and ability to jump surpassing Sam and his smaller legs. They were running side by side, but John allowed Sam to take the lead as soon as they reached the bottom; allowing Sam to show him to his oldest child.

At first the sunlight blinded them, and John once again fought the urge to assure Sam it couldn't be a vampire, but as he raised his hand over his eyes to shield the glare of sunlight he felt his stomach drop. There, under the shade of the shelter around the ground floor's ice machine, backed into a lonely corner, was Dean, trying to pry a creature's jaw away from his jugular.

John took no time to call out to his son, aware that the distraction could cost him dearly. Instead, he turned to Sam, barking orders.

"Run upstairs; get a wooden steak, okay, Sam?"

The boy nodded, gulping, and taking a deep breath, aware of the effort it had taken to get up there in record speed the first time, but ready for another try. John barrelled forward, running to his boy's aid.

* * *

He cried out as her grasp let go as she tossed him into the air, and into the wall. His back was set alight with the pain, and as he sank to the ground, his head hit the floor hard. Debris from his body colliding with it fell down on him, and he looked up in time to see her hands grabbing him once more and throwing him again. He had no control of where he would land, and hated it more and more, especially when he hit the large bin, the corners biting into his skin, and jarring his ribs painfully. He lay still, fighting back the tiredness as he slow and steady heeled steps neared.

She crouched down next to him, her knees bent, and her elbows leaning on them as she titled her head to the right, and looked at him curiously. He held her gaze one more, before using the floor as leverage and kicking out, making her fall backwards, and hit her head hard onto the cemented ground. He staggered to his feet, wanting to add to the distance between him, and her, and when she neared once again, he aimed a punch at her face. She ducked, but he had expected as much and he thrust his other fist in her stomach, winding her, but not for long.

He gasped as she took struck out, but at his already painful ribs. He would have crashed to his knees has she not chosen that moment to grab him by the neck, pushing him high up against the wall. His legs kicked as he searched for ground no longer there, and his body bucked as she came closer to his neck.

Her red lips were agape, her fangs so close to his skin, as he struggled against her grasp. One hand held onto his shoulders, while the other held his neck, making his eyes bulge and burst eye vessels as he tried desperately to breathe. Her red nails dug into his skin, leaving tiny trails of red in their wake, and bruises along his skin from her inhuman strength. Just as the black spots grew in their size along his vision, he saw it.

Out of the corner of his eyes, as they glazed from the lack of oxygen reaching his lungs as the red nails curled deeper around his exposed neck, his father, his saviour, his shotgun illuminated by the sun, coming to his son's rescue, his face contorted in anger, in pure fury, as she was yanked away suddenly and thrust backwards. She caught herself a second before landing onto the exposed tarmac, and kept to the shadows still. Hissing.

He aimed at shot suddenly, the bullet hindering her for a moment, but her arm struck the hand holding the weapon and it tumbled into the daylight. John ducked at an attack, and propelled her with his own.

Dean had sunk to the ground, trying to catch his breath, and not wince at the, no-doubt, mass amount of bruising adorning his skin from being thrown around like a rag-doll. He watched carefully as his father sidestepped yet another attack, but she was clever enough to draw John back, further into the shadows, and further into her safety from the baking sun.

"Dean!" A voice cried, and he lifted his head that had begun to droop slightly to look at his brother running toward him, and crouching by his side. To Sam it must have looked worse than it was, but then again, Dean hadn't seen himself either. One leg was bent beneath him, while the other was sprawled outward, as he leaned heavily against the wall, his hands bracing himself on the base of the wall, as though trying to press himself further back into it subconsciously. Little rivulets of blood were trickling down his neck, and a nasty bruise was beginning to make itself known across his face, along with a bleeding cut at his hairline, while his eyes were still somewhat glazed, and bright red from being strangled as he was.

Dean smiled at his brother, proud at the weapon, the steak in his brother's palm, and holding on to it tightly as though it were precious. But the smile faded as he realised they had two options. Sam could either run into the fray or hand the weapon to their father, but that would put him too close to danger for Dean's liking...

But the other option was Sam sneaking up from behind and being precise in his attack. Even with the vampire's waning reflexes from hunger, Sam was no match for her; even the great John Winchester was having trouble.

"No," Sam said simply, pushing down on Dean's shoulders as he tried to get up. The world tilted for a moment as nausea crept up his throat and his ribs screamed. He hoped they were only badly bruised, but either way, he would be no use to them. He wanted to tell Sam to stay away, but she had to be stopped. And pushing her into the sunlight would run the risk of her escaping back to the shadows before the rays did their work on the creature of the night.

He looked back at his father, who had also noticed his youngest presence. He waited for a moment, taking his chance and struck out with his boot, putting as much force as he could into the kick. He didn't even look to see her fall, he only ran toward Sam, who, seeing the intentions tossed the steak into the air, letting his father catch it, spin around, just as she was getting up and lunging forward. The wood hit her still heart, and as he brought it back out again, she let out a low growl, her tongue clicking against her teeth as she hissed and let out a scream. The hole left in the weapon's wake began to fester, as though dark ash were crumbling from within, it fell onto the ground as her skin crumbled away, and her bones were nothing more than dust, before being swept away into the daylight.

John tried to catch his breath, and Sam still stood, mouth agape at the spectacle he had just witnessed. He was only brought back to his senses by the movement to his left, and saw, much to his chagrin, Dean standing, leaning against the wall still, but grinning all the same.

"Nice work," He commented as his father ran forward and began checking his injuries. Dean merely stood there, more than glad when his father began to steer him back up to the room. Taking the lift this time to be easier on Dean, while Sam shifted his feet back and forth counting the seconds between each floor, and each _ding_ as they reached another.

As soon as the doors opened on their floor, Sam ran out, key already in hand, determined to clear away his brother's bed of the junk adorning it before they got there. Leaving the door open for when his father got there with Dean, he had managed to swipe the last of his brother's dirty clothes onto the nearby chair when John pushed the door further open, practically dragging his oldest to the bed, as he protested being coddled.

"I'm fine." He grumbled, but didn't dare protest at the painkillers held out for him with one hand and a glass of water in the other. He took both gladly, and lay down on the bed, while John did another check up.

Dean had been right, his ribs weren't broken, but they would hurt for some time until the bruising improved, and other than the shallow cuts on his neck, and the bad graze on his forehead, Dean would be fine.

John looked up at the boy, his son, who had helped fight off a Vampire no less single headedly when anyone else would have run. He wanted to tell Dean how proud he was, but decided against it, noting the drooping eyelids, and glazed look. He cleaned the cut on his forehead best he could, content that it would heal on its own without the aid of stitches, and gave his son the last order of the day.

"Get some rest, kiddo."

And Dean did as he was told.

**Please Review.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Guess who's an idiot? I spelt Stake wrong in the last chapter, it isn't steak…like the meat…shit. Thank you to SapphireRavven8 and Kate for pointing it out lol :)**

**Okay this came out a little longer than I had intended...**

**Mask of a Moment.**

John had looked for him for over an hour, and had come up with no luck. He didn't know the area half as well as his son, with his strange incessant walks alone, and simple wanderings of a teen, did, and now he was paying for it. If only Dean had ran off into the Woods, where he knew every overturned leaf and pebble had their exact spot. Where he could track the footprints better than any other, where the terrain was rough but familiar.

But no, Dean was not in the woods, John had checked, and checked, and checked. Coming home to a still-fuming Sammy had been even worse. The weedy child standing in the doorway, arms crossed, and jaw set, anger raging and bubbling beneath the surface of a grim expression. "Did you find him?" And John gave nothing more than an exasperated sigh. If he'd found him, he wouldn't be walking back through the doorway alone, trudging in all of the mud and grime onto the floor as he did so.

"Well we have to go back out there!" Sam cried, and John understood the fear underlining the anger, he felt it too, but at the same time...

A demon hadn't taken his son, and a ghost wasn't hiding him somewhere. He hadn't gone off hunting, Dean was not that stupid, and he wasn't missing without cause. John already suspected Dean had overheard the argument and he knew how much it affected the oldest of his children who desperately clung on to whatever was left of this broken family.

"He's hurt, Dad!" Sam cried at his father's silence, as though the older man didn't know as much.

"Dean's old enough to look after himself."

He said knowing the words to be true,

"He wouldn't have to if we had anything resembling a normal life!"

John ignored the comment, bristling at how easily he could turn around and blame Sam, and almost proud of his fatherly instincts telling him to not go there. No matter how many times Sammy blamed _him_.

"He clearly wants to be left alone." John said sadly, unnerved that he had been unable to help his son enough, and angered that his words with Sam earlier may have been heard enough to drive his oldest out of the house. Again. But last time, Dean hadn't been injured, or weak. And last time, he noted with slight relief that this now wasn't the case, the weather was worse.

It had taken a lot to get Sam to stay in the house as the hours crawled by, but John could see how much harder it was getting. Sam was fidgeting when as though a lightbulb had gone on inside of his head telling him to rest, he started yawning, a lot. Continuously, his eyelids fluttering closed every now and again.

John had mistook it as the boy getting tired, and slowly, he too had begun to follow. He had no idea of how sneaky his boys could be, and Dean had played the trick on Sam enough times in the past for Sammy to pull it off without a hitch. Dean had never done it to their father though, he was capable, especially at the end of hunts when John had been driving for hours after digging graves for longer, but it was out of deep respect, that Dean didn't dare.

Yawns were contagious, no matter how fake they were, you'd still catch it. Still retort with the slight whine that accompanied the giant gulp of air. Drooping eyes were the same if they could be pulled of realistically, but you had to be deadly precise on when to slump down. Had to make sure, you fell "asleep," at the right moment, not too early, not too soon.

Sam waited cautiously, his eyes seemingly closed, but opened with just a slit of vision, enough to let him see his father edge near and pull a blanket over him. At first Sam had willed himself to show no signs of being awake, afraid his plan would be ruined. But John was more than tired, more than exhausted and as soon as he slumped back down in the chair, he was out like a light. Still worried for the world and its problems as well as his own.

* * *

He knew it had something to do with an underlining memory of Dean's past excursions, or maybe the strong bond the brothers had to one another, but it hadn't taken Sam long to find his brother, hearing the swing set creak as it swayed back and forth slowly and without enthusiasm, ominous in the night.

"Are you going to go to a park every time you run away?"

Sam asked to the darkness, content when it snorted and mumbled, "Maybe."

After all, twice now, John had known about Dean running off to the confines of a children's playground, but Sam knew of more times. Times when they had been alone and Sam had over-stepped the boundaries of a tolerable sibling, and Dean, forcing himself to either leave, or kick his brother's ass, would always pick the swings. The pendulums swinging backwards and forth lulling his anger, letting it simmer until there was nothing left but the squeaking, creaking of the iron chains above him, sometimes stretching far up, and sometimes, on the younger-kid's swings, stretching as far as he himself could reach.

Which served him well if ever bored enough to climb around, using the swing itself for leverage, and the chains and foot and handholds, succeeding in being able to sit himself on the railing above, his legs dangling until he was told off by a passer by and forced to jump to the grass below. At least, sometimes it was grass.

Other times, where Dean truly had to rely on any possible Cat-DNA that had somehow, freakishly enough wormed its way into his cocktail allowing him to land on his feet. At least at first, before falling flat on his face, or forcing him to throw his arms out in front of him, scraping his palms and hurting his wrists

Sam walked away, and Dean sighed. There was no use staying there any longer, and he was glad to have his brother walking in front of him, only looking back occasionally instead of the constant Mother-Henning from earlier. He got up and followed slowly

* * *

_The flames were engulfing them all. He was frozen, unable to save them, unable to save any of them as the reds and yellows took away his home, his family, everything leaving nothing but charred remains in its wake. Dean was running in the opposite direction, screaming for his brother and father, but every time John tried to get to him the flames would dance dangerously close to his youngest and John would be forced to move the boy constantly never able to handle both of his son's, and Dean was getting further away. _

_He was running away, and he stopped short, mouth hanging open as though in shock before he fell to the floor and the flames disappeared. John spared no time in rushing forward, running, sprinting to his boy's side, and finding him there, sprawled out on the grass. _

_Grass? _

_Why was there grass? Why were they outside? Where did the house go?_

_Dean lies there, drenched in red, gasping for breath while his father holds him tight, tries to help, tries to make it better, but he can't, and Dean's getting paler, colder, he won't look at his father anymore, his eyes won't focus, and then he's still, so still. _

"_It's all your fault," Sam says crouching low and whispering into his father's ear, haunting him with his voice so menacing and cold. "All your fault,"_

"No!"

John shot awake, trying to shake away the terror, almost glad that no one had seen him wake up like that. But Sam should have, after all he had fallen asleep on the chair hadn't he?

"Damn it, Sam!" John muttered, knowing full well his son was looking for Dean.

He looked around for his jacket, and just as he opened the front door, there they were, walking up the pavement to the house. Dean looked wary but otherwise unharmed, and Sam seemed far too triumphant for his own good.

John fought the urge to embrace his son, instead choosing to nod in his direction and be content with the silent understanding passing between the two of them that this would be best dealt with another time, when they weren't so weary and prone to screaming. There would be no reprimand, and Dean would not criticize. John would look his son over for injuries, or worsening condition, would be satisfied that neither were present, and would send both off upstairs to bed. Making sure to lock the doors, and steel himself before nodding off to then wake at the slightest noise.

Four times John woke up that night, once because of Sam's one am trip to the bathroom, and the rest were either his own paranoia creating noises after silence had gone on for over two hours, and occasionally due to a stray cat with its bell-covered-collar jangling as it strolled along on the quest for mice just underneath the window sill outside, but never because of his son's leaving the house, and come morning, he was satisfied to see both in bed, both sleeping, and both, completely undisturbed by dreams of the dark.

* * *

To say Dean was up and about would be a lie, that much implied someone was not only well enough to be up and not resting, but also to leave you thinking that this person, now completely healed and devoid of any weariness or lingering pain was 'about' and thus with a bounce in his step.

Dean was neither, but he was awake and strolling around the house when he should not be. After the quiet walk home between he and his brother last night, he had trudged up the stairs and practically collapsed onto his bed, face first, stopped from instant dozing by the sensation of his worn out trainers-that had served him well when running away from demon's…and his problems-loosening and being pulled from his feet. He turned around on the bed, wincing at the tug in his chest and then propping himself onto his elbows to stare at his little brother who was innocently putting his trainers in a neat pile in the corner out of the way, their laces intertwined inside of the shoe beneath the tongue, while Dean would have kicked them off and hoped they missed any of his few possessions.

He had wanted to make fun, and point out the differences but Sam was so intent on doing so, that Dean soon realised it was the act of being busy rather than facing up the need to leave. Both knew there was no way Sam could sleep as he had done the night before by his brother's side. Dean wouldn't have it, because as much as Sam would try to convince his older brother that it was for Sam to feel safer, both were well aware it was to give the younger piece of mind that 1) his brother was still alive and 2) he wouldn't, or rather, couldn't, go off gallivanting into the night as he had done earlier.

Sam finally left the trainers, looking up at his brother and meeting his gaze. Did Dean know how worried they had been? How scared John had looked as he stormed out the door in search of you, how determined Sam had been to fuel his anger into looking for him? Had he inflicted the terror on purpose? Was he being manipulative or simply selfish? It wasn't in Dean's nature to be either, but tonight he had dabbled with both.

Dean's head tilted to the side, years of practise letting him see the need to question in his brother's eyes, but as usual, waiting for the other to being, he was in too big a mood to do otherwise. Did Sam know how useless Dean had felt? How much of a burden Sam's words had made him feel? Did he know of the hatred toward their constant fighting that lay beneath his Mask of tired indifference? Did Sam even intend to get on with their father? Ever? Dean hoped not, but he knew better. Most Winchesters did.

After a battle of wills, and the art of adorning masks was reaffirmed, Sam finally gave in and left his brother, who fell back against the sheets, and slept restlessly, only woken by the annoying flush of the toilet and hour or so after midnight.

* * *

The pathetic attempt of closing the front door quietly woke Dean from his slumber, straining his ears; he heard the car's engine kick into action as their father left for the day.

He sighed, well aware of the problems in their family, mainly the more recent ones. Sam had issues, hell, even Dean had issues, and their father-well...it wouldn't surprise the eldest, or youngest, son if he was one big-walking-talking issue, that would never get resolved.

He looked to the clock in the room and was surprised to see how late it was. Just gone lunchtime, and as soon as he realised this, his stomach rumbled comically. The thought of food did nothing to quell a lingering nausea, but he hadn't actually eaten anything for some time, and it was stupid to try and go on much longer without anything.

He rose steadily, and grabbed a clean shirt, took a moment in the bathroom, keeping the same jeans on throughout, and padded down into the kitchen.

* * *

Sam saw his brother standing over the sink, holding a tin there, and by the smell of it, he guessed it was tuna. He was dressed in dirty jeans and a loose, baggy shirt that was no doubt more comfortable without pulling at his chest.

"Let me." Sam said, walking in further and trying to grab the tin from his brother's hands, but Dean shrugged him away, muttering, "I got it." Sam ignored him and made for the tin once more, successfully managing to grab it.

"Dude, what the hell?" Dean cried, at his now empty hand, and Sam smirked, repeating, "Let me." A little more sternly and Dean growled, but otherwise stood backwards.

"I'm not an invalid." Dean grumbled, already annoyed with himself, and not in the mood for Sam to baby him any further. "I can take care of myself."

"Oh, 'cause you did such a good job of it last night." And the words were out before Sam could truly think them over. Dean's eyes narrowed, and a glare was in place for a moment, as Sam continued. "Don't you see how dangerous all of this is?" Dean rolled his eyes, it really didn't take much to set Sam off nowadays, and this time, he supposed, was just another lecture on their life. "All of this hunting? Dad's gonna kill us!"

And the words, had once been spoken in warning as Dean dared keep his little brother out a little later than they should, in truth, Dean knew his father wouldn't be home to know this much, but Sam, and his naïveté, did not, which made it all the more amusing, as Sam grinned, jumping along to keep in step with his big brother, almost proud to be disobeying the rules that bound them to their lifestyle.

But now the words were laced with foreboding and a prophetic irony Dean couldn't seem to shake. Each syllable was said so clearly, so astutely that Dean could do naught but heed them, swallow them dry, and hope they had no true credence in the long run.

"Sam-." Dean tried to gain his brother's attention, which was caught in the throngs of anger, as Sam was officially on a bit of a verbal rampage.

"No, Dean, why do you think it's all okay?"

"Sam-." He tried again, seeing his lunch beginning to disappear. The chunks of tuna falling, falling, and falling out of the tin his brother held over the sink's plug hole, unaware of the loss of its content.

"You could have died!"

"I know Sam!" He cried, peeved at the lack of listening from his brother, "Okay? I know! But did you have to take it out on my lunch?" He asked, and Sam looked back to the sink. His hold on the tin's top had lessened enough for the food, the tuna, to have fallen down the drain.

"Is this going to happen every time I try to make myself lunch? 'Cause this is getting old, fast." Dean quipped, grabbing a glass, and reaching over Sam to get to the cold tap.

Sam glared, already finding another tin in the cupboard and opening it, draining the contents of excess water, but paying more attention this time. Dean took a long swig of the water, careful to not swallow too much too quickly and choke, and grabbed the mayo from the fridge, a bowl, and a fork from the drawer. Once Sam was done with the tuna, Dean took it back, and Sam grabbed the cucumber from the fridge, to which Dean raised his eyebrow at. It was no secret their usual grocery buys didn't include any kind of vegetables usually and he quickly remembered who had gone on the recent trip...

Then he caught sight of the sharp object Sam was using to slice the cucumber that looked a lot like-

"Dude, what the hell do you think you're doing!" He cried, grabbing their father's weapon from Sam's hand, who simply stared, deadpan. "It's just a knife, Dean."

"_Just a knife_, it's a ceremonial athame, you idiot!"

Sam rolled his eyes, already done with the thing as it was, and he lined the four pieces of bread with the vegetable, two having been put out by Dean himself, the other two added by Sam, who it seemed, would be joining his brother in lunch. Dean sighed at his little brother, and followed him to the table, seeing quite clearly, the stubborn streak of a Winchester shining through.

**Please Review**


	10. Chapter 10

**Line stolen from V for Vendetta – hangs head in shame –**

**Thank you to everyone who's reviewed and kept with this despite it's confusion and unreliable updates, but this is the last chapter so enjoy, and please review!**

**Laid Bare**

They hadn't always been like this. Fighting, be it with each other, _or_ the Supernatural, and once upon a time, they hadn't even known a thing existed. John had been content with his house, his family, his job, all of it, and his oldest was growing up so quickly, playing ball, enjoying school. And Sam, was so small, such a bundle of joy to their already happy family.

People he knew were always telling him how jealous they were. The guys would tell him how lucky he was to have a gal like Mary under his arm, and they'd only keep saying it after the two got married, earning playful glares from their own respectful wives, and making Mary laugh. Oh that laugh, god he missed it.

When they first found out Mary was pregnant they had spared no time in making sure the whole world knew. John told everyone he knew, and ones he didn't. He informed family and friends even when it meant making the long distance calls to wherever they were.

He hadn't spoken to them in a while either.

The book filled with numbers had burned with the house. Mary was the one who made sure everyone kept in touch. She'd check in every month or so, sometimes more often, and get the recap in everyone's lives and give out her own, how Dean was getting so tall and lively, how he would run around the house, smiling all the while.

John would creep up on her while she was on the phone, wrap his arms around her hips, and plant little kisses on her neck, leaving the caller on the other end confused as to why Mary was not only now avoiding the conversation, but giggling every now and again. She would have to apologise and promise to phone back, while she reprimanded her husband, before kissing him back.

When Mary told John she was pregnant again, he wasn't the first to know, and he remembered feeling slightly put off to find out that he was the fourth to find out. She had told her sister first, accidentally, and her sister had then told _her_ husband, and together they had told Mary's parents. Only then did Mary decide to inform her husband, laughing at the crestfallen expression, and apologising time and time again.

He had gotten over it, choosing instead to get more of a head start where the newborn was concerned. With Dean, their first, they hadn't been as prepared as they had assumed, and soon realised that things as trivial as diapers would become a crisis in a small amount of time. The first thing John did was build the crib. It was Dean's old one, but one of the panels had broken off after John and Mike had tried taking it to the garage, and dropped it unceremoniously to the floor. He gave it a fresh coat of paint, and made sure it was as clean as could be.

They had painted the nursery, decorated it, and finished it when the baby only had a couple more months to go. Mary had the over-night bag packed three weeks in advance, constantly getting false alarms whereas labour was concerned. That night, the night, Mary was already on her feet, cheeks flushed bright red, as she shook John awake, who jolted upward, waited for the world to focus, and then shot to action, helping Mary down the stairs. He opened the car door for her, sat her down, and ran back into the house.

He roused Dean quickly, grabbing him in his arms, and taking hold of the boy's coat on the way out of the house. Keys in the door, house locked, and now keys in the ignition, engine purring, Dean yawning in the backseat, sat next to his mother, slowly falling asleep against her shoulder, as she tried to breathe in and out, quietly, but failed. She did however; resist the need to cry out, gritting her teeth instead, and telling her husband to hurry. Dean, thankfully, did everything he was told. He put on his jacket, climbed out of the car, on the same side as his mother and kept in front of them at all times, within their eye line, stopping only when they got to reception and he was at a loss.

They were in the hospital for so long that in the end, John called Mike and his wife to take Dean home, realising that was the one thing they hadn't really put enough fore-thought into. Dean did as he was told then too, aware that today was not about him, and letting Mike's wife take him in her arms, and home, to bed.

And days later, when finally they could return home, Dean was there, waiting in the doorway, waiting to see his mother, and, the baby. He had already deduced some months previous that it would be a boy, though how? John had no idea. But the boy was completely unfazed when his father told him he had a little brother, and his name, he and Mary had decided on some hour or two ago, was Samuel. Sammy. Sam Winchester.

Dean had smiled at his mother, covered her in kisses and stared at his baby brother for hours. Waiting for his eyes to open, wanting to be the first thing that baby Sammy saw when he woke up in the house. Itching to introduce himself as his big brother.

When Sam had woken up, he had screamed, and cried, and screamed some more before Dean even had the chance to say hello. John had rushed in, letting Mary rest for a little while and had taken Sammy upstairs, leaving Dean alone in the living room wondering what he had done wrong, putting himself into a foul and sad mood until hours later when Sam returned, in his father's arms of course, content on staring at his own tiny fingers, until he was faced with Dean, and instead, chose to stare up at him, smiling.

Maybe that was why it happened to them. Happiness is never granted a long stretch. Joy is seldom left alone. The demons, the ghosts and the night stalkers saw to that. As well as any higher power watching over them, like a big kid with a magnifying glass, and the human race were nothing than ants to be burnt, scorched and destroyed in the mid-day sun.

Set alight, with the fire.

Mary's hair was gold, and glinting, it shined in the sunlight, and when there was a breeze, timid enough to do nought but brush across the skin, little wisps of her hair, not caught in a bun, would fly ahead of her, leading her to wherever she went, and she followed without question.

And John followed _her_, wherever she went. Only stopping when he could go no further, as Mary fell into the world where John could not follow, though he screamed and cried her name out, begging for her return, as the flames blocked that path, already marred with the droplets of her blood...

This family has seen too much blood, John thought to himself. Knowing it to be true. In the space of a few short days, Sam had once again shown his hatred toward the hunt, sparring yet another fight, letting Dean play peacemaker, putting the boy's life in danger as usual, but this time...

...too close. Too much blood, too close to losing his son.

Never again.

But it would happen again, they all knew, and it didn't matter how much blood Dean lost, or how much Sammy complained, because there would always be something to hunt, always something to kill, and demon or no, that had become their duty, their job and destiny ever since John had found those books at the library, and seen Missouri in her little house. Ever since he had seen the world, the real world, the shadows lurking...ever since he had perfected his exorcisms and Latin tongue, ever since he had made friends with those like him. Since meeting men like Elkins who taught him so much, keeping in touch with members of the clergy retaining a clue, and ensuring he had a friend in the weapons industry.

Ever since he had switched off the light, and taken Dean to bed. Ever since laying the boy down, kissing his forehead, and closing the door carefully, tiptoeing past their room as Mary slept on. Ever since falling asleep to the bombshells in the film, and ever since waking up to the sounds of a high pitched scream. Terror in his home. Ever since running up those stairs, throwing open the door and thinking it to be nothing more than a dream.

Ever since looking up after the droplet had fallen, ever since_ seeing_...

Ever since the fire and the flames and the heat, so intense.

Ever since then, John had become more than a man hell bent on revenge. He had become a hunter, with a purpose. A killer with a conscience so black and white and devoid of grey. Such was life, such was simplicity. Such was their life, or not.

Simplicity meant that his sons followed him blindly, and though at times, Dean would give that impression, he knew the boy too well, and could see the question lingering in his eyes, and soon enough, he would start asking, while Sam spared no time in the why's, shooting them out, demanding answers, and refusing to do as he was told.

A part of John felt proud of that, aware that his son was clinging his own feet, independence, almost a complete contrast to Dean who seemed to cling to the notion of togetherness, again, something John didn't hold against him, but prided in his son. At times, at least.

Others he would scream at Sam, call him selfish and drag him wherever they went, and sometimes, he would see Dean's attempts at playing the good-guy, constantly between him and Sammy and it would always annoy him. They didn't need a referee, Dean would just get caught in the crossfire.

As usual.

All day he had worked odd jobs to meet an end, to get the pay, the money, enough to buy his son's food, stock up in the first aid supplies that didn't need an impromptu trip to the hospital to borrow a few items not on the shelf. He had kept his mind on one-track, never letting it stray to his son's for fear of de-railing. When finally night had fallen, dark all around, only then did he realise how late it was getting, and excusing himself, made his stop offs at the pharmacy and the grocery store.

Driving had always been a pleasure, never a chore. He had an incredible amount of love for his car, too much, Mary would say, especially as it didn't exactly scream, child safety, but they would work around it, John was sure. Or rather he had been, now, he wasn't too sure of anything. Just revenge, anger, hatred, fighting, hunting, killing, revenge, always revenge. Everything else, hung on by a thread. Including, he sighed sadly, his son's. He sped up unconsciously, his foot pressing down on the gas pedal, suddenly in need of getting home, wanting to see his son's to quell the worry that had never really left him since that night in November.

Rushing down the road like a bat out of hell, tires squealing as he came to a stop, grabbed the bags, and fumbling for the key in his pocket, noticing so many of the lights out, hoping his boys were still awake, he hadn't even caught a look at the clock yet. Finally getting the door open he saw the flickering blue hues from the television set in the living room, the dilapidated box of metal, barely finding a channel through constant stacking...and the boy with shaggy sitting in front of hit. He turned to see his father watching him.

"Hey," John greeted Sam carefully, still so wary, and unable to fight right now.

"Hey." Sam repeated, no real tone to his voice. John took a breath, telling himself to push the attitude away, and put the bags down in the kitchen, making his way upstairs.

Sam watched him go with a mixture of exasperation and relief. The man was late, more so than usual, and the boy wondered if he was avoiding his son's perhaps. After all, he had left without a word that morning, and now, trudging upstairs to bed perhaps? Sam let his eyes trail back to the set, barely making out the War heroes through the occasional bouts of signal on the screen.

All day he had kept his watchful eye on his brother, from waking up later than he would have liked, intent on helping Dean, though granted, ruining their lunch had been a mishap he had not intended on. Four times Sam had walked in on his brother exercising. Doing push ups his body could not yet handle, and the last three times, Dean had really tried to hide it. Closing his door, keeping quiet, but Sam still found him doing so, and lectured him on it seeing as their father was absent at the present moment. Dean hadn't listened, there was nothing new there but Sam hadn't found him doing it again. Either Dean was getting better at lying, which scared him, or his body had refused to let him continue, which come to think of it, scared Sam too.

He looked back at the screen and realised he had managed to miss one of the pivotal moments during the film. Stretching, he too made his way upstairs, checking that the doors were locked, and switching off the lights as he did so. When he made his way over to his room, he saw Dean's door open slightly, though no light came from within, and he could hear a faint voice, but he paid it no heed as he went to the bathroom.

It was on his way back, when he could still hear the sad, gruff voice, that he paused. He opened Dean's door carefully, aware that it would creak when too close to being opened fully. He stayed, half in, half out, seeing his father perched on the edge of the bed, head turned away from the door to watch his oldest sleep.

"You're gonna be okay, aren't you kiddo?" John whispered, stroking the hair on Dean's head lightly enough for Sam's brother to not even stir, and the youngest Winchester in their broken down family of three, had a sneaking suspicion that John wasn't just referring to the now healing injuries of late. And he was fairly sure this was one of the last of a long lists of whispered words John had spoken since first seeing Dean injured as he was that night.

John would pretend to be a hard-ass so much that everyone him had no clue it was all a show. Even Dean. He would watch his sons, fear for their lives with every passing second, as he trained them how to fight, defend, live. Sometimes, you wear a mask for so long, you forget what's underneath, but you keep up appearances, keep up with the Jones's, keep telling yourself that that little part of you, they'll never see, is more important than anything they'll ever know. And sometimes, when watching others, you see the masks falter, but it is seldom, Sam knows, and he basks in the moment, watching still, unbeknownst to his brother and father.

**The End**

****

**Please Review!**


End file.
